


Arthur in Avalon

by altocello, harlequin (julie)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, Afterlife, F/M, M/M, Quests, Sidhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 10:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/harlequin
Summary: Arthur  died in Merlin’s arms, and he’d thought that was the end of his story – but then he wakes up in agony in Avalon, as the Sidhe remove Mordred’s sword-point from  his flesh. Soon Arthur is convalescing, and befriending Niamh, daughter of the  Sidhe Queen Orlaith. He meets up with other old friends in Avalon, too, who  find contentment in this place, but Arthur can never quite settle. He wants to  return to the mortal world and continue his work. Orlaith tells him that’s  possible – but first the Sidhe want something in return for healing him.





	Arthur in Avalon

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s notes:** With love to **altocello** for once again gracing my humble words with your beautiful artwork. I can’t imagine what I ever did to deserve you, hon! You always see through to the heart of things, and then use the most gorgeous imagery and careful ideas to cast your own spell.
> 
> A [separate post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470367) from altocello features the art alone in all its glory. Please do let her know how lovely it is! 
> 
> With gratitude to **whimstories** for the beta-reading, both kind and thorough. Any remaining infelicities are definitely my own responsibility! 
> 
> And with thanks, as always, to the **aftercamlann** mods for running yet another year of a terrific challenge!
> 
> I’ve given the Sidhe names that are a mix of Old Irish and Old English, with apologies for any cultural clumsiness.
> 
>   * **Niamh**: pronounced Neve; meaning radiance, brilliance.
>   * **Orlaith**: pronounced Orla; meaning gold.
>   * **Ainmire**: pronounced Ann-meer; meaning great lord.
> 
> This fic stands alone, I promise. However, it refers in passing to matters explored in my earlier fics [**Lancelot du Lac**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/407717) and [**Beltane**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14605797). It also has a short companion piece, [**Leon in Camelot**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526623). Any of these can be read with or without the others. 
> 
> **Artist’s notes:** Thank you so much to the mods who made this fest happen; without you, none of this would be possible. I would also like to thank **Slashweaver** for letting me entice them with the idea of writing for this big bang; it was an absolute delight to work with you again, and your beautiful prose worked its magic on my imagination. Many thanks are also due, as always, to my beta, **Amphigoury**; without her thoughtful comments and encouragement these pieces would be so much the poorer. Lastly, I would like to thank the cheering squad, **Jelazakazone** and **Alby-Mangroves**, whose enthusiasm is dynamic enough to light an entire city. Please know that without this little village, none of these would exist. Thank you, thank you, thank you! ♥♥ 
> 
> **Art link:** <https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470367>

♦

♦

♦

The pain of the sword-point slicing out of him was worse than anything he’d ever felt before. Worse than it had felt sliding in. Worse than it had felt breaking off as Mordred twisted his grip. Worse than it had felt burrowing in and further in towards his heart. Arthur’s breath stopped in his throat as the sword-point sliced out through his flesh, and he was nothing more in the ice-cold eternity of that moment than a sharp shard of steel.

Then the bedevilled thing was gone, and he was warmer again, and the pain was horrible but bearable now. The moment’s clarity dissolved into confusion. He was conscious of trying to ask “What – ?” and “Where – ?” and even “Merlin – ?” but they soothed him into silence, and the constant, familiar bustle of being cared for was sedative enough. 

Arthur let himself go.

♦

The problem was he remembered all too well that he’d never expected to suffer pain or take breath or feel warmth ever again. He hadn’t minded very much in the end. He’d never sought Death nor gone to unreasonable lengths to avoid it, for Death came to all in its own time. Arthur had trusted that his life’s work was done when he felt Death’s approach, he trusted that Camelot was left in the best possible hands – and so, held firm in the arms of his friend, Arthur relaxed and let himself go. Expecting nothing more than the unknowingness of peaceful rest.

Had he not earned peace? 

Arthur sighed, and tried opening his eyes again.

♦

He was in a circular room built solidly of stone, unknown to him but as familiar as any castle in Albion. The unglazed window showed him a perfectly blue sky and the slight curve of a grassy hill. The warmth and scent of a gentle breeze hinted at the growth of spring. How long had he been asleep … ?

There was peace here, though not of the sort he’d wanted. 

The quiet was spoiled only by the whirr of an insect’s wings. Arthur shifted his head slightly, and saw a tiny winged bug glowing blue, darting around too quickly for him to keep track of. He blinked, caught sight of it again – blinked, and a woman was stepping down out of the air and onto the flagstones. 

She could have been human, more or less, if it weren’t for her pale blue skin and the translucent spikes that framed her face perfectly. She appeared to be younger than him, certainly no older, but her hair was a dark pewter grey, worn in a thick tumble of waves down her back. Her dress was crafted of silver and blue, and fitted like a slightly uncanny second skin. 

“Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” she intoned, her respect only slightly undercut by irony. Her manner was confident and easy, and slightly amused, as if she were used to embodying more power than Arthur could dream of for himself – even when he wasn’t in such a weakened state.

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, which was all he could manage as he lay there, though he hoped to convey a corresponding level of respect. “Hello,” he tried. His throat was dry and sore with disuse, but she seemed to understand him anyway.

“Hello,” she responded in kind. “I am Niamh of the Sidhe. You are in Avalon.” After a moment, she added, “Emrys sent you to us.”

“Merlin …” he whispered. 

Niamh’s amusement seemed to grow. “Yes, you knew him as Merlin.” She turned and paced away for a moment, her hands clasped together as if considering something. “It is a strange thing, Arthur, to have you here,” she said as she stepped back towards him. “My father had long worked for this, but Emrys confounded his plans. And then at last … Emrys sends you here of his own accord. It is a thing of wonder.”

Arthur had no idea what most of that meant, though in his last hours of life he’d already begun to grasp that Merlin had done far more work than Arthur had been at all aware of. Now he queried Niamh by lifting a hand a little way towards the wound from whence the sword-point had been taken. 

“Yes, he sent you here hoping that we would heal you. And we have.” A thoughtful nod. “There will be a price, Arthur, but nothing you will not be willing to pay.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if he found that reassuring. Who were these creatures, to know what he would and wouldn’t be willing to do?

Niamh could read his doubts, of course. He suspected that he was too reduced to hide anything from anyone with an ounce of perspicacity. “There is nothing to fear, Arthur. There is plenty of time. Indeed, there is all the time you need. The only thing that matters for now is that you should heal. Nothing will be asked of you until you are fully yourself again.”

Well, it wouldn’t do to be ungrateful, even if Arthur felt at rather a disadvantage. “Thank you,” he croaked, “for all you’ve done.”

“It is our pleasure,” she said graciously. “Please. Rest now, Arthur.” 

And she lifted up somehow, and was gone – and that tiny winged blue insect hovered over him for a moment, before darting out the window. 

Arthur didn’t have the resources yet to resist sleep, so he surrendered. 

♦

Days followed nights, which were succeeded by days, but Arthur had little sense of exactly how much time was passing. One day might seem as long and as full as a year, while another might feel as short as an hour. But there was never any hurry. No one seemed to be anywhere they didn’t want to be, or doing anything they didn’t want to do. 

Despite this utter lack of urgency, Arthur felt that his convalescence sped by. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t suffered through the healing process a time or two before, being confined to bed for days or for weeks. It wasn’t as if this injury hadn’t been more serious than anything he’d been afflicted with before, either. But somehow, here in Avalon, either he healed faster or he felt the time passing was less of a trial. 

The Sidhe took care of him, with Pixies doing the fetching and carrying. Arthur was vaguely aware of other beings in and around the castle, too, but he met none directly – not while he remained in the circular stone room – and it was really only Niamh who spoke with him at any length. 

Despite his isolation and incapacity, Arthur found that he didn’t get bored. It seemed as if some enchantment ensured that not only did time flow by but his thoughts did not weigh on him. On occasion, when his own ponderings were done, he would look into the cabinets beside the bed, which held an ever-changing assortment of scrolls and natural objects and artefacts. He’d choose one and mull it over, gaze at it, feel it in his hands, explore it with his mind. That was more than enough, when Niamh wasn’t there to talk with.

It was an unfamiliar, deep kind of peace. 

Sooner than he’d hoped, there came a day when Niamh asked if he’d accompany her to sit outside. “We prescribe fresh air and sunshine,” she advised, “and a chair with a rug and plenty of cushions.”

He hadn’t felt at all restless until that moment, but suddenly he was eager to leave the seclusion of this room. “I’d like that,” he said – quite unnecessarily, for of course she knew exactly how he felt and how he would react. 

“There is half a staircase to walk down, and it’s too narrow for me to be beside you.”

“I think I can manage,” Arthur said. He was already dressed – in a cream tunic and brown britches, much like what he’d used to wear in Camelot – and he felt there was no challenge he could not meet that day. Or did he somehow know that there’d be no challenge he was unable to face? 

He was already sitting up, so it wasn’t much trouble to stand – he felt only a slight tug from the healing flesh as he shifted, and no pain at all. He carefully shrugged on another tunic for an extra layer of warmth. And then Niamh was leading him towards the room’s only door and the twist of staircase leading down. 

Emerging into the sunlight was like coming alive again. Arthur grinned, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to bask in the warmth. Soaking up this welcome energy was all he could do for now, all he could cope with, but that was as it should be. Niamh helped him settle into the chair, and he lay there with a rug over his lap, perfectly content. 

After a while, Arthur began paying attention to things beyond his own self. The day was quiet enough to hear the gentle breeze soughing in the leaves of distant trees. Behind him rambled the Sidhe’s half-ruined castle, with grassy hills beyond. Before him stretched a lake, somehow dark and mysterious as though its surface would not reflect the warm blue sky. There were woods to either side of him, though at a distance, as if – despite the crumbling fortifications – the Sidhe were still concerned that no one should be able to approach them unseen.

As Arthur had thought before, in many ways he could be anywhere in Albion. But he knew he was not. 

Arthur sensed that there were other creatures, other people, getting on with their own concerns in other parts of the castle, other parts of the countryside. Other parts that were beyond his ken, as if there were different times and places layered one upon the other, but some had shifted askew so that he could glimpse the edges where they were not fully overlaid. Musing on this kept him occupied for quite some while. 

Eventually he slept, though, warmed through by the sunshine – and when he woke he found himself back in his bed, and there was a tray of food and drink waiting for him on a bedside cabinet. Arthur sat up and reached for it eagerly. He was truly hungry for the first time since he’d arrived. 

  
[](http://inkwellfiction.com/cello/merlin/quiet-breathing.jpg)  
  
_**Quiet Breathing**_  


♦

♦

During one long lazy afternoon by the lake, Arthur became aware of a disturbance in the water. The surface, usually smooth or gently rippled at most, now swirled and heaved – and a figure emerged, lifted upright, then walked steadily to the shore. Arthur had recognised him long before he set foot on dry land, so he was ready with a neutral expression and greeting. “Lancelot,” he said when the man stood before him.

“My lord,” said Lancelot, as fervently as ever, with a respectful bow of his head. Their gazes met and grappled for long moments, before Lancelot quietly continued, “I am so glad to see you again, Arthur. But I am sorry to see you _here_.”

Arthur caught himself before he could protest that it was a perfectly nice place, thank you – as if he’d been caught on a pleasure jaunt to somewhere that Lancelot felt was lacking. “Well,” said Arthur stiffly, “it isn’t exactly the future I had planned.” After a moment, he added, “Merlin sent you here, did he? Back when –”

“Yes. Though I never came this far before. I’ve spent my time in the lake.” Lancelot gestured behind him, and Arthur saw that a young woman had also emerged and was now standing there hesitantly, with her bare feet still in the water and her wet dark hair a heavy cloak around her shoulders. “This is Freya.” 

Arthur lifted his chin in greeting, wondering if even that much would be welcome. She looked as skittish as a new-born colt, and the dishevelled state of her short dress – perhaps it had once been a wine-dark red – was a stark contrast with Lancelot’s very proper black tunic, britches and boots.

“Come on, Freya,” Lancelot encouraged, beckoning to her. Eventually, reluctantly, she stepped onto the grass, and approached them. “Freya, this is Arthur, from Camelot.”

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I know.”

“Have we met?” Arthur asked with a frown. She didn’t look at all familiar to him, but she was watching him with such a tumble of conflicting emotions.

“You –” she began – and then changed her mind, and changed it again – and then finally she said, “You set me free.”

“Did I?” he responded, relieved that there might be something salvageable from whatever history they shared. Then it occurred to him that her meaning was capable of a different turn. “Ah.” He looked from Lancelot’s solemn face to her troubled one. There was no point in mincing words. Not here. “I suppose you mean that I killed you.”

“Yes.” She lifted a hand in a conciliatory gesture, and closed her eyes for a moment – but now that the truth was between them she seemed a little less disturbed. “There was no other way. I might almost thank you. I was not … myself.”

Arthur nodded, and found it within him to say, “Nevertheless. I am sorry.”

The three of them were quiet then for a time. The breeze picked up and rustled the water, riffled the leaves of the distant trees. 

But eventually Lancelot took another step towards Arthur and asked, in a low voice, as he must, “Sire? How is it with Guinevere?”

Arthur scowled up at him, half-pretending that the sun was forcing him to squint. “The Queen was well when last I saw her. I left Camelot in the care of the best person I know.”

“Yes,” murmured Lancelot. “Yes, you did, and I’m glad of it.” 

_I forgave her,_ Arthur almost added, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to offer reassurance to this man. And surely it was obvious, given that Arthur had ended up marrying her regardless.

“Sire,” Lancelot eventually continued. “There aren’t words for the remorse I felt when I realised –”

“Never mind that for now,” Arthur said, deliberately cutting him off. “It was years ago. What happened was … nigh on inexplicable. And you paid a far higher price for it than I could ever have asked.” He nodded once, firmly, as if to convince himself as much as anyone. “It’s long over and done with.”

A still, tense moment passed. Then Lancelot bowed again to Arthur, and turned away, and paced along the edge of the lake towards the forest to the … Arthur thought it was north. 

Freya watched him go – and Arthur half expected her to slip away into the water again. But instead she crouched down at the edge of the shore, and watched the sunlight glinting on the surface of those dark depths, until she and Arthur were both lost in a reverie. 

♦

As the sun began lowering to the west and the breeze coming off the lake grew cooler, Niamh came to accompany Arthur back to his room. Freya was aware of it, but didn’t move from where she was, and there was no sign of Lancelot returning, so Arthur simply turned away. He supposed the social niceties were rather different here, if there were any at all.

Arthur and Niamh were silent as they walked, and as they climbed the short staircase, but once they were inside again, Arthur said, “Would you stay for a moment? There’s something I need to ask you.”

“Of course,” she said. She sat on one of the low cabinets, for want of a chair, and Arthur sat on the side of the bed. 

A silence threatened to stretch, but Arthur figured he might as well just come out with it – so he did. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Niamh just watched him steadily, and didn’t indicate either yes or no. 

“I’d hoped I was still alive somehow,” Arthur confessed. “I mean, why else would you have needed to heal me? I imagined a soul would be … in perfect condition, physically. If it was physical at all. Unless a soul bears the body’s mortal wounds … ?”

He paused, but Niamh didn’t offer any clarification. She was even more guarded than Gaius at his most reticent.

“I remember dying,” Arthur continued – “but then I woke here, and in such pain, so I thought I’d been mistaken.” He sighed. “But Lancelot and Freya both died in … in the mortal world, didn’t they? So that means I did, too. Doesn’t it?”

At last she spoke, but only to say, “It’s more complicated than that, Arthur.”

And apparently he was meant to be reassured by this, but he wasn’t. He wanted details.

Perhaps his best stubborn face had more effect here than in Camelot, for Niamh eventually added, “Avalon is a place where … many times and places meet. It is the home of the Sidhe people, and the Pixies. But there are others – many different others – who stay here, too, for a short while or for what you might consider eternity. The Lancelot and Freya you met with this afternoon are indeed the souls of dead mortals –”

“Eternity?” Arthur stuttered out, even though he was aware of interrupting a rare statement of fact. He’d always thought a soul would be perfectly, peacefully content – and indeed he had felt that way for a while. But the healthier he became, the more restless he got, and he wanted to know what his future held – if anything. “Niamh, is _this_ … I mean, this time and place – Avalon – all I’ll ever know?”

“No,” said Niamh, “it is not.”

He stared at her. “Then –”

She shook her head. “I cannot tell you more, Arthur. I do not _know_ more. But tonight, if you’re feeling well enough, come to the great hall to share our meal. My mother Orlaith will be there. She will be able to answer your questions – maybe not this evening, but when the time is right.”

And with that he must be satisfied. “Thank you,” Arthur said, with a nod, just as graciously as he could manage.

♦

The hall that evening was full, with Sidhe seated at the long tables, and Pixies serving them. A few of the Sidhe retained their tiny winged shapes, and occasionally flew down to sip at a bowl of honeyed mead. Other strange or magical creatures were there as well, but – as far as Arthur could fathom – he, Lancelot and Freya were the only human guests. They were given a place of honour, at the high table set on a dais a few inches above the hall floor. Orlaith was placed at the centre of the table, presiding over them all. 

Niamh sat between Arthur and Orlaith. “My mother is an Elder,” Niamh explained quietly to Arthur, “but you might think of her as our Queen.”

“Then you are a princess,” Arthur responded. When she demurred, he added, “I knew it all along,” and lifted his goblet to her. 

“We do not consider it in the same way,” Niamh replied, “but my sister –”

“Yes?” he prompted.

After a moment she shook her head. “That is not my story to tell.” She took a platter full of meats and fruits and cheeses from a passing Pixie. “Arthur, can I help you to more food?”

He was successfully distracted by his renewed hunger. By the time he had taken the edge off it, Niamh’s attention was involved elsewhere, so instead Arthur turned to Lancelot – who would appear subdued if only there weren’t Freya to compare him with. The young woman was eating and drinking readily enough, but had shrunk inside herself and barely said a word to anyone. Lancelot was subtly paying attention to her, though, and conveying a sense of comradeship, so Arthur felt he shouldn’t interfere. 

Instead he quizzed Lancelot about what he’d been doing all these years. “You said you’d spent your time in the lake … How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” Lancelot said with a gently puzzled smile. “At first I just … sank. I just lay there at the bottom of the lake waiting for my flesh to merge with the earth. I thought it was over. I thought it was the end of all things. But it wasn’t. After a while I realised I was … Well, not alive, not that. But somehow I was continuing.”

“Under the water?” Arthur prompted with a sceptical lift of his brow.

“Yes!” Lancelot appeared as astonished about that as anyone might. “I suppose a soul can be as happy in water as in air. Not that I was happy at first – but Freya was there.” He offered an affectionate nod to his friend. “She showed me the way. There is a whole world down there to explore, Arthur!”

“I see,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure that he did, not yet.

“So much beauty to enjoy. The bright silver of a fish, and colours beyond imagination glinting in each of its scales. The way that fronds dance in a current, in rhythms that are always the same and always changing. The patterns of sunlight and moonlight on the surface, and the shape of their beams as they dive below. The way that the water holds you but doesn’t resist you, so that you can move in any direction, as supple as you could ever wish for.” 

Arthur could understand that last point at least, though on the whole it sounded an oddly purposeless existence. “Is there work to be done there?”

Lancelot smiled, and shook his head. “Not that I found – though I confess I wasn’t looking for it, either.” After a moment, he continued, “Arthur, I felt peace there. I felt true peace for the first time since … since I was a child.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur found himself saying, his throat thick with grief and regret. _I forgave her,_ he reminded himself yet again. In the end, what had happened between Lancelot and Guinevere had been everything and nothing. It really was long over and done with. “Lancelot,” Arthur said, “I wished you peace. And I am glad that you found it.”

A look of infinite gratitude from those warm dark eyes, a stray tear brimming and eventually tumbling down his cheek, before Lancelot bowed his head. “Thank you, sire,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome,” Arthur replied, and then he let the man be.

Though he couldn’t help but note that Lancelot still wore all black, as if he himself were in mourning. There was no denying that the man looked devastatingly handsome in black, but Arthur couldn’t help but think it didn’t really suit him. It was too harsh a look for the gentle man Arthur knew Lancelot to be. 

♦

As the evening wound on, Arthur grew tired. During his recovery, he’d never sat upright for so many hours without far more support and many more cushions than provided by this chair. But as one of the guests of honour it would be rude to retire before he was given explicit leave to do so, and it had become obvious that Orlaith wanted to discuss something with him. Perhaps Niamh had passed on his questions about his current situation and his likely future. Arthur hoped so, at least. 

In the event, he was disappointed. Orlaith, after expressing her concern and her good wishes for his health, announced that she wanted to tell him of a scheme involving Camelot that once had been zealously pursued by her husband, Ainmire.

“A scheme?” he echoed, unable to hide his dismay. 

Lancelot said quietly to Arthur, “I do not think my lady Orlaith means the word in quite such a negative way as we might use it.” 

Niamh seconded this notion with an encouraging nod.

“Oh,” said Arthur, “I see. Please forgive the interruption, my lady.”

She offered a slight but gracious bow of her head, and continued. “Ainmire long desired to unite Avalon and Albion, and he planned to do so through Camelot, and through you, Arthur Pendragon.”

This left him gaping as he struggled to wrestle the ideas into something that made sense. Eventually he confessed, “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. Unite … the mortal world with Avalon? But isn’t this the realm … perhaps _a_ realm – of the dead? I mean –”

“It is, my lord,” Orlaith replied, “if by that you mean mortals may only pass from that world to this, and not return.”

Arthur swallowed hard over the lump in his throat. He had hoped – when he had doubted his own death, he had hoped that meant he would in time return to Camelot. Even so, he had also known that it was a strange and unlikely thing to happen.

He tried to focus on the here and now, though he could not help but betray his own desires. “So, in uniting the two … worlds? kingdoms? – you would enable humans to travel back and forth between the two, as well as Sidhe?”

“You are thinking of only the physical worlds, Arthur,” she said in a voice that was oddly both soothing and chiding. “You are thinking of the lake which serves as a portal between them.”

“I should be thinking of the spiritual instead?” He was definitely on shaky ground there. Arthur had tended to leave such matters to Gaius and to Guinevere – though he glanced now at Lancelot, wondering if the knight could help shore up his king’s lack of expertise. 

Lancelot was following the conversation with rapt attention, but his answering glance was enigmatic.

“Not the spiritual,” Orlaith said, “but uniting through the bonds of kinship and the sharing of resources.”

Arthur was back to gaping. How was any of that even possible? Unless the physical portal was made more accessible – in both directions – but even then …

When it became obvious he had no useful response, Orlaith continued, “Ainmire planned for you, King Arthur, to marry a Sidhe, and to rule Camelot with her.” 

The gaping continued. He couldn’t help but look to Niamh, but her head was bowed and he couldn’t see her expression. 

“Then, when your time came, Arthur, you and she would come to Avalon and rule here.”

A silence stretched. 

“Oh,” Arthur finally said. “I see.” Not that he did see, not at all. Was it even possible? Not that Niamh wasn’t attractive, and she’d been a good friend to him – but he couldn’t help but recall that her natural state seemed to be a small winged insect, and that made them fundamentally incompatible, didn’t it … ? 

And anyway, there was Guinevere to think of. Eventually Arthur said, “I’m sorry, Niamh, but I’m already married.”

She looked at him with a wan smile. “My father’s plans involved my sister, not me.”

“Ah, yes, you mentioned –” He couldn’t quite remember the context now, so he said, “I haven’t met her yet.”

Niamh shook her head. “She died. She suffered and she died.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur immediately offered – though he wondered what happened to Sidhe when they died, given that they were already in Avalon. Did their souls journey to yet another realm?

Orlaith said, “My husband’s plans were thwarted – by Emrys.”

Arthur turned ice cold, as he realised what must have happened. “I am so very sorry,” he murmured when he could. “It’s only now that I’m realising … how very fiercely Merlin protected me. I rarely had any idea. And I never knew about his magic. Not until those last few days.”

Orlaith nodded her acknowledgement of his regret, but remained silent. 

And it wasn’t that Arthur didn’t want to make this up to them in some way. But there was one insurmountable problem. “I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m in no position to help fulfil your lord’s wishes. My heart is already pledged to someone else – someone who remains in the mortal world.”

Niamh and Orlaith both looked at him with great poignant understanding. “Yes, we know,” said Niamh quite sadly. 

“We will talk of this no longer tonight,” said Orlaith. “You must take your rest, Arthur, and our other guests will be made comfortable. I will bid you all good night.”

And she stood and swept away, leaving the reliable Niamh to take care of the three humans. Not that Arthur minded that at all.

♦

♦

For a day or two, or maybe three, Arthur did little more than laze in the sunshine by the lake’s edge in company with Lancelot and Freya. The young woman didn’t speak much, and tended to stay a short distance away from the two men, but still she remained with them – or, perhaps more to the point, with Lancelot.

Arthur indicated her one morning, and said quietly to the knight, “I thought she might have returned to the lake by now.”

Lancelot looked at her fondly. “So did I! She was a little reluctant to come ashore, but I asked her to try, for my sake.” He paused for a moment’s consideration, and said, “I am sure she’ll return just as soon as she wishes it, but I’ll make sure she knows she needn’t feel obliged to keep me company.”

Avalon seemed a place in which anything might be talked of, so Arthur murmured a question: “Do you love her?”

“Oh yes, very much,” Lancelot replied in fervent tones. “I hardly know what I would have done without her! … But if you are asking about a romance, I can assure you there is none. Freya and I are the best of friends.” Lancelot glanced at Arthur, and away again. “Her heart belongs – as many hearts do – to Merlin.”

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaimed. That caught Freya’s attention, though she still didn’t draw closer. Arthur quit talking quietly, though. “He isn’t even here, but he’s mentioned in just about every conversation I have.”

“And how else should it be?” Lancelot mused, as if to himself.

Arthur let a long moment drift by, hoping the subject might drift away with it. “What about you?” he eventually asked Lancelot. “You seem happy enough to be on dry land again.”

“I am,” Lancelot affirmed. He had been basking in the sunshine, but now turned towards Arthur with a smile. 

“No silver fishes or dancing fronds up here, I’m afraid.”

Lancelot laughed. “One day, perhaps, I will show you how beautiful it is down there. But for now I feel that I belong here. My dream …” A cloud passed over his face, but was gone a moment later. “One of my dearest dreams was to be a knight of Camelot. That year … that last year before Samhain, and the Dorocha … that was the happiest year of my life. I had to leave that dream behind in the mortal world. But to be here at your side, Arthur, feels very right to me.”

It felt right to Arthur, too, so he nodded his acceptance of this unexpected fealty – though he found himself saying doubtfully, “Well, if I ever have need of a knight …”

“You’ll know where to find me, whether by the lake or under it.”

They shared a grin. Arthur didn’t realise how soon he would be calling on Lancelot’s services.

♦

Niamh summoned Arthur to the great hall that afternoon, and added that his companions would be welcome if they cared to join him. 

They walked into the hall to find Orlaith sitting at the high table, but the rest of the room was cleared of furniture. A few Sidhe were there in their tiny winged form, high in the rafters, but they seemed to take no notice of what was happening below. Arthur looked around in interest. In daylight, the place was obviously in dire need of repairs – or would have been, if it was in the mortal world. Somehow, despite the gaps in the roof and holes in the stone walls, the hall seemed protected. In any case, the weather here in Avalon had always seemed mild, and Arthur didn’t suppose the Sidhe would mind a little rain coming in. 

Finally the four of them stood before Orlaith. Arthur bowed his head and said, “My lady.”

“My lord,” she greeted him, and then she nodded politely to Lancelot and to Freya. Niamh remained by Arthur’s side rather than joining her mother. 

“How may I be of service?” he asked. 

Orlaith looked pleased. “I know you have questions, Arthur, and I know that you are restless now that you are delivered of your mortal hurts.”

He nodded once, and then watched her, curious beyond measure.

“We have used powerful magic to heal you, Arthur, and there is a price you must pay in return.”

“Name it,” Arthur said. After all, he felt sure that Merlin and Gaius wouldn’t have sent him here if the price was beyond Arthur’s means. He had faith in them both – and his willingness met with Orlaith’s approval. 

“You will remain here in Avalon for a hundred years,” Orlaith declared, “and you will complete three quests for us. Only then can you return to Albion.”

Arthur stood there, feeling absolutely rocked. 

Orlaith added, “You will not age, but remain as you are.”

Be that as it may, this was both far better and far worse than he had dared to hope. Not that Avalon was a bad place to be, and obviously Lancelot and Freya had found peace and contentment here – but Arthur himself yearned for the mortal world, and perhaps he always would. The problem, of course, was that by the time he was permitted to return, Guinevere and everyone else he had known and loved would be long gone. Perhaps they would each come to Avalon when their time came – but then Arthur would be forced to part from them again when he returned. None of that bore thinking about. Not yet.

And in the meantime, at least, it seemed there was work to be done. 

Arthur cleared his throat and asked, “What quest do you have for me first, my lady?”

Orlaith inclined her head graciously, perhaps appreciating that he didn’t complain, or quibble over the details, or try to negotiate. “There have been reports of a dark-hued creature in the woods to the east of here. It is said the creature makes mysterious smokes which obscure the sunrise.”

“A magical creature?” Arthur asked.

“This is unclear to us. Arthur Pendragon, I require you to find this creature, and determine its nature, and then decide what to do for the best.”

“I see.” He nodded, already mulling this over. “Has the creature done any harm to anyone – or anything?”

“I think not, but there is fear and unease caused where all should be calm, and that is enough to concern us.”

“Absolutely,” Arthur agreed with a firm nod. He glanced at his companions. Lancelot, of course, was standing tall, almost quivering with readiness. “Do I need to follow the quest on my own?”

“I leave such decisions to you, Arthur. To complete the quest, I require you to return here and tell us what you decided to do, and why, and what the outcomes were. The rest is in your hands.”

“Thank you.” He turned and said, “Lancelot, it seems I have need of a knight after all.”

“Yes, sire. Thank you. I’d be honoured to accompany you.”

Arthur tilted his head to address Freya – just as Lancelot turned towards her, too. “Would you care to join us, Freya? I would understand if you didn’t want to, but of course you’d be welcome if you do.” She wasn’t exactly the sort of person Arthur would tend to involve in a quest, but she and Lancelot were such fast friends that Arthur rarely saw one without the other. There was no point in trying to break that bond, especially not for a quest which seemed relatively harmless.

To his mild surprise, Freya nodded once, firmly, to indicate she would go. She didn’t say anything, but she lifted her hand as if to indicate she’d return momentarily – and then she scampered off, out of the hall, in the direction of the lake. 

Arthur had one last invitation to make. “Niamh, would it be too presumptuous to ask you to accompany us, too? None of us know much of Avalon beyond the lake and the castle, and your guidance would be invaluable.”

Niamh looked to her mother for permission, which was graciously given, and then she smiled at Arthur. “I would be delighted to come with you. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” Arthur turned back to Orlaith, and concluded, “Then, my lady, we four shall leave on this quest just as soon as all is ready.”

“I wish you well,” Orlaith intoned, “and will look forward to your safe return.” 

Arthur bowed, and then led Lancelot and Niamh back down the hall. 

Freya hadn’t returned, but Arthur saw her as soon as he stepped outside. She was standing by the lake’s edge, holding a sword point-down before her with her hands on the hilt. It shone brightly in the sunlight, almost catching fire as he walked near – and he recognised it. “Excalibur!” 

She solemnly waited for him, and then held the sword out towards him when he was close enough to reach for it. 

Arthur took the grip into his hand, feeling as if he were reuniting with an old friend he’d thought to never see again. He hefted the weight of it, admired once more the sword’s perfect balance, then swung the blade in a perfect arc through the air, his wrist remembering its own supple strength. Excalibur was sharp enough to slice silk, sturdy enough to fell a dragon.

He lifted the sword high, and the sun caught it, casting silver and gold over all that surrounded him. 

And Arthur felt at last that he was truly himself again.

♦

♦

They left a day or two later, on foot. Arthur hadn’t yet seen any horses in Avalon, and he assumed that if there were any they wouldn’t be tamed or trained, given that the Sidhe were perfectly capable of flying anywhere they wished to go. He had seen very little farming, but the Pixies seemed capable and willing for all kinds of physical work, including carrying burdens, so perhaps there hadn’t been the need to supplement their strength in the same ways that humans needed to. 

Niamh walked with them in her almost-human form, wearing a tunic and britches, and carrying a satchel of supplies just as the rest of them did. Freya had been persuaded to wear shoes, though she hadn’t been prepared to give up the tattered remains of the dress she wore and replace it with something more practical. Lancelot was brimming with his usual equanimity, with a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. Arthur considered this motley team with a surprising fondness. 

So far, at least, this was nothing like any quest he’d ever undertaken in the mortal world. Except perhaps for one, Arthur pondered as they crested a grassy hill and entered a forest that seemed to stretch before them forever. There had been a time many years before, when he had accompanied Merlin on a trip to his home village of Ealdor, and Morgana and Guinevere had insisted on coming with them, too. That had been all rather unexpected, just as this quest was. 

He had trained the villagers to fight, and together they had seen off a gang of bandits. Merlin’s friend Will had used magic to save Arthur, and – Arthur frowned for a moment. Or had he? Will had hardly seemed the sort to be a sorcerer. Not that Merlin had seemed the sort either, but surely they couldn’t have _both_ had magic? Unless that shared skill was the origin of their friendship. Or was it more likely that Will, mortally injured, had decided to cover for Merlin, and … 

Arthur shook his head and tried to smooth the frown off his brow. There were so many happenstances, so many memories, capable of taking a strange turn now that he knew more about who and what Merlin had been. In some ways, it felt as if Arthur’s footing was no longer sure, and so he didn’t often venture far down such puzzling paths. 

Instead, as he followed Niamh, Lancelot and Freya through the woods, winding between the trees, Arthur chose to think of Guinevere. He had been aware of her before that journey to Ealdor, of course, as Morgana’s maid servant and friend. He had known she had a good heart, and had advocated for her accordingly. But it was that quest on Merlin’s behalf that marked their first real conversations. 

Guinevere, bless her, had spoken out on matters of equality and fairness, and had challenged him to acknowledge the necessity of gratitude and compassion. Even now, he felt ashamed of how arrogant and self-centred his younger self had been. But Guinevere, when he had expressed his regrets to his wife, had reassured him. “We all begin with flaws, Arthur, and none of us will ever be entirely perfect. What matters is what we do about our own flaws – and how we treat others, who are neither better nor worse than ourselves.”

A wise woman, his wife. Superbly capable, too. Arthur had no doubts at all that she was doing well.

♦

He was so deep in thought, that Arthur almost walked right into Freya when Niamh called a halt. “Let’s rest for a short while,” she said to them all. “There is no need for us to hurry, and Arthur is still recovering from his mortal wound.”

Arthur opened his mouth to voice a mild protest, as he was actually feeling quite well. He could still sense the path of Mordred’s blade within him, but it caused him no pain, and in fact the morning’s steady walk through the fresh pure air had only reinvigorated his physical energies. 

Before he could say anything, though, Niamh glanced meaningfully at Freya, and Arthur nodded his understanding. He wasn’t sure why they should be tactful about it, but he trusted Niamh to at least have a worthy reason for it, even if Arthur himself wouldn’t necessarily agree with her. 

They were in a small glade within the apparently endless forest, with the sun gently casting its beams across the grasses, and the flowers shyly displaying a rainbow of colour in the warmest spot. Lancelot and Freya settled on the ground, leaning back against a fallen tree trunk, while Niamh and Arthur sat on another trunk a short distance away. They all drank a little from their water skins, and Arthur distributed an apple each by tossing two to Lancelot – who caught them with easy grace – and handing one to Niamh, keeping one for himself. 

Avalon’s apples were so crisp and juicy that their first bites almost echoed within the glade, causing them all to laugh, and this sweet bubble of shared joy rose into the blue sky above them as if they could cast their own beneficent light into the world.

They were quiet while they ate, exchanging only a few practical remarks about their journey. Afterwards, Freya curled up beside Lancelot with her head on his shoulder, and she slipped away into a doze. Lancelot tilted his face towards the sun and closed his eyes. 

Arthur turned towards Niamh and said quietly, “I’m confused.”

She smiled at him, but with sympathy and encouragement.

“If our friends here are souls, then why does she feel tired?” Arthur didn’t use Freya’s name for the sake of not rousing her from rest, but he indicated her with a lift of his chin. “She looks as if she’s sore from walking, too, but why –” And of course this applied to himself and Lancelot as well. “We eat, and we sleep – or I do, anyway. I’ve been sleeping a _lot_. But surely it’s not really necessary? If we’re souls rather than mortal bodies, I mean.”

And of course Niamh knew exactly what he meant, so Arthur finally came to a verbal halt. 

“In Avalon,” Niamh answered in slow, thoughtful tones as if pondering this herself, “it hardly matters what you are. Animals, mortals, souls, what you’d think of as magical creatures: everyone can _be_ here, everyone can exist in the ways in which they wish to. And if those ways of being can … recognise each other, then they can interact, as well.”

“So, we don’t _have_ to eat,” Arthur responded, “but then again why wouldn’t we, when the apples here are so perfect?”

Niamh laughed under her breath. “Indeed.”

Did it follow, then, that Freya’s discomfort was a result of her not being as happy here on land as she had been in the lake? Arthur still couldn’t imagine actually living under the water, let alone preferring to do so, despite Lancelot’s lyrical descriptions of the beauties to be found there. But if that was the case, and Freya had only emerged from the lake due to her loyalty to Lancelot … ? This was, perhaps, a problem that Arthur could carefully enquire into and maybe help resolve. 

“Are we ready?” Niamh eventually asked in her regular voice, breaking into though not disturbing the quiet peace of the glade. “Shall we continue?”

“I’m ready,” Arthur said, doing up his satchel and standing. He was amused and reassured to see that Freya was already on her feet, and had offered a hand to help Lancelot up – which Lancelot accepted with a fond smile on his face. 

A moment later they were all ready to continue – and Niamh led the way in pretty much the complete opposite direction that Arthur was expecting. “Oh,” he said. “Are you sure … ?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she answered with a smiling glance back over her shoulder. Lancelot and Freya were following her readily enough, so Arthur fell into place behind them. 

While they walked on, though, Arthur felt an odd tug prompting him elsewhere. It was strange to feel so disoriented, but Arthur supposed he shouldn’t expect his sense of direction – so reliable in Camelot and in other places in Albion – to translate well into Avalon. Even during his recovery at the castle by the lake, the sun never quite appeared where he thought it would be, other than at sunrise and sunset. And even those events occurred unexpectedly every now and then, too. 

Which Arthur supposed indicated at least half of the problem. Of course he wasn’t familiar with the landscape here, but when even the sun’s path could be unexpected then nothing would feel settled – and he had to admit that time itself didn’t feel quite as reliable as it had done in the mortal world. 

Well, none of that really mattered for now, because Niamh was obviously completely at ease in this regard. Even if she hadn’t walked this forest before, she seemed to have an unerring sense of direction – and that was good enough for Arthur. This might be his quest, but that didn’t mean he had to lead it personally. And it had sometimes struck him, back in Camelot, that perhaps the best way to lead was to know who to trust, and who else to follow. 

Arthur continued on quite happily through this burgeoning green forest, a lightness in his steps and an instinctive smile curling his lips.

♦

They saw the reported billows of smoke early the next morning – though not, of course, in the direction that Arthur had anticipated. The smoke was white at first, as if coming from an ordinary wood fire. By the time the four of them had broken their fast, however, the smoke had turned a dark yellow colour – appearing sombre, and rather ominous. It occurred to Arthur that perhaps this quest might prove to be a serious one, and maybe it had been a mistake to bring Freya with them. 

A short while later, as they began their walk, the smoke became lighter again, and then died away so that nothing – not even clouds – obscured the vivid blue sky. 

“Niamh,” Arthur called from the rear of their party, “you’ve got your bearings, I trust?”

“Yes, Arthur,” she replied with a wry grin. “How far away was it, do you think?”

He grimaced in doubt, but decided he might as well go with his instincts and see how they fared. If his feel for distance was as unreliable as his sense of direction, then he’d never be able to travel anywhere in Avalon on his own – but he might be able to adjust, with experience. “Perhaps we’ll be there well within two hours, at our current pace? Unless we strike rougher terrain.” 

“I thought so, too,” Niamh agreed.

Well, that was reassuring – unless she was humouring him. So far, they hadn’t encountered any particularly steep slopes, or impassable undergrowth, but Arthur supposed they couldn’t rely on it. Unless Avalon was always uncannily perfect for what was needed, and would present nothing insurmountable for this quest and his companions …

Arthur didn’t bother puzzling over that for too long, and instead turned his mind to what he thought they might discover. He might find himself at a bit of an impasse if the smoke was created by a magical creature, such as a dragon. If the thing wasn’t causing any harm, then perhaps it could be left in peace, but he didn’t feel overly confident in his ability to judge aright without Merlin or Gaius’s knowledge to draw upon. Though he supposed Niamh, Lancelot and Freya between them could ably supply what Arthur himself was missing. 

Though if it came to a fight, Arthur had his sword but no armour. No shield. He had his best knight beside him, but Lancelot wasn’t armed at all. Niamh certainly had powers, and could no doubt be relied upon in a tussle, but Arthur didn’t know the details of what she could do. He was obviously dangerously unprepared –

And already they were at the edge of the forest, the four of them standing there just within the trees’ shadows, looking down a grassy slope to where a stream swelled into a pool before babbling away again into the blue-hazed distance. 

Near the pool was a cairn, a broad circle at its base and gently curving up to a narrow top, built of grey stones, some of which seemed marked by smoke. A figure sat on the ground at some distance from the cairn – a human sort of figure, with its elbows propped on its bent knees – apparently contemplating the sky’s reflection on the surface of the quiet pool. Everything about the figure was black or dark brown, but its coverings and the point over its head seemed more like a hooded cloak than a dragon’s hide and crest. Arthur remained wary, but felt more confident again in his ability to handle this.

He shaped his hand around his sword’s hilt, but didn’t draw it. Then Arthur lifted his chin and tilted his head, inviting his companions to join him in approaching the figure, if they wanted to. They all kept pace beside him – and of course, even though they trod carefully across the grass and didn’t speak, the figure was soon aware of them approaching. It stood, and turned towards them – gazed intently, and then reached up to push back his hood –

Human, then. And in the next moment, Arthur recognised him. “Elyan!” he called in delight. 

Elyan’s broad bright grin greeted them. “Arthur! Oh, how wonderful. And Lancelot, too.”

Arthur and Elyan were in each other’s arms for a fierce hug, and then Elyan pulled away but only so that he could hug Lancelot, too. “It’s so good to see you,” Arthur was babbling. 

“You, too!” Elyan was blurting in reply. “You, too. Oh, no, but that means you’re –” His face clouded. 

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Arthur said with a heartiness that was mostly sincere. “We’re all dead. Well, not Niamh, I don’t think. She lives here in Avalon. Niamh, this is Elyan. My bother-in-law. And, Elyan, this is Freya, a friend of Lancelot’s – and Merlin’s.”

Elyan greeted both women with polite warmth, though he soon turned back towards Arthur, and asked in low urgent tones, “And Gwen? Gwen’s not with you?”

“No, Guinevere is still in Camelot. Alive and well, the last I saw her. Ruling as Queen, and I’m sure doing a much better job of it than I ever did.”

Once he’d taken that in, Elyan grinned at the self-deprecating humour, and then clasped Arthur’s arm again, and gently shook it before letting him go. “Oh, it’s good to see you again, Arthur. All of you,” he added. His glance took in the four of them, and then dwelled curiously on Niamh as if he were trying to make her out.

“Have you been here alone all this time?” Arthur asked. The others began settling, sitting on the grass nearby and taking a drink of water, while Arthur and Elyan stood there talking. There was so much to ask and to say! “Have you not met any Sidhe until now?”

“Sidhe? Is that what this lady is?” Elyan asked quietly, his interest torn between Arthur and Niamh – who tactfully ignored the fact she was being spoken of. “I’ve heard tales of the Sidhe. But, no, I’ve not met another soul here.”

“But you emerged from the lake, didn’t you?” Arthur persisted. “We gave you to the lake on the other side – and the Sidhe live in the castle on the shore here.”

Elyan shook his head. “There were trees, right down to the water’s edge, where I surfaced. I did think I glimpsed some ruins through the forest, but the way towards them wasn’t easy – and to be honest I was happy enough to be alone for a while. So I kept walking, until I reached this place, and it seemed good to me so I stayed.”

“It does seem good,” Arthur agreed, looking around again at the peaceful setting. “I’m sorry we’ve had to disturb you.”

Elyan grinned, and reached a hand to clasp Arthur’s shoulder. “No, that’s fine. It was time. I was beginning to feel the lack of company.”

With the essential facts established, Arthur sat down near the others, and Elyan followed suit. They each accepted the apples offered by Lancelot, and bit into them. “Oh, that’s brilliant,” Elyan murmured happily.

Once Elyan could spare attention for anything other than the apple, Arthur indicated the cairn. “So, what’s this you’ve built – a hut?” Though it wasn’t overly large. If there was a door on the far side of it, Elyan would pretty much have to crawl in and lie curled up on the ground. Arthur knew there were times when one wanted that snug kind of comfort, though. “We yearn for shelter, don’t we? Even in this mild climate.”

“Ah, no, I’m making charcoal,” Elyan replied with a shrug. “Old habits die hard! After a while I wanted to be doing something, so I thought I’d set up a smithy. Not that I’ve seen any signs of iron ore yet. But the first step is making charcoal, which burns at a high enough temperature for smelting the ore, so I started there.”

Arthur nodded his understanding. Guinevere, as the daughter and sister of blacksmiths, would have expected him to put that together himself – as he might have, if they’d been closer to the cairn which would be radiating heat. 

Niamh took the opportunity of a pause to ask, “What do you intend to make, Elyan?”

“I’m not sure,” he said to her with a tentative smile. “It depends on what metals I find.”

“We don’t need weapons here,” she said quite firmly.

Elyan’s focus on her intensified, as if he could see or otherwise sense her power. “No, I don’t suppose you do, my lady,” he agreed.

“Excalibur belongs with Arthur,” Niamh continued, “and Freya was right to keep it safe for him, and to bring it to him now. But Excalibur is the only weapon you’ll find here in Avalon.”

“I understand,” Elyan said, apparently accepting this ruling with no umbrage. He offered Niamh another smile, turning to face her directly. “Perhaps instead I should look for silver, and craft a setting for a precious jewel to sit upon your brow, to humbly augment the light shining from your beautiful eyes.” 

Arthur’s brow lifted in surprise and – he had to admit – scepticism. But Lancelot was watching Elyan and Niamh fondly, as if such a flirtation were harmless and even desirable. As usual, Freya paid little or no attention to these interactions, and instead was pondering the water in the pool they sat by. Arthur cleared his throat and readied himself to advise Elyan to retreat in good order, in the unlikely event that Niamh couldn’t tell him herself.

“Ah …” Niamh mused at last, “the chivalrous knight knows how to flatter.” 

“Is it working, my lady?” 

“Perhaps a little,” she allowed, though her smile told a distinctly happier story.

Elyan beamed in response. 

Arthur cleared his throat rather pointedly. Whatever else was going on, a change of subject seemed appropriate. “You might be wondering what we’re doing here, Elyan, and why we came to find you.”

“Ah, yes,” Elyan said, visibly having to drag his attention away from Niamh. “Of course, Arthur. Er …” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if needing to force himself to think of the necessary words. “It wasn’t a random accident, then?”

Arthur huffed a little in amusement. “I’m not sure that anything that happens in Avalon is without purpose. But, no. Niamh’s mother, Orlaith, is the Elder or Queen here. And she sent me to investigate reports of the smoke you’ve been creating.”

“You’re a princess,” Elyan murmured, again gazing at Niamh, “and I’m but a lowly blacksmith!”

“You’re a knight of Camelot, Elyan, and brother to a Queen,” Arthur retorted, despite his better intentions. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Lancelot was lying on his back now with his head resting on his linked hands, and he was smiling poignantly up at the endless blue sky. He mused, “If the King of Camelot was wise enough to marry a serving girl, for who she was and not for her station in life …”

“All right, yes,” Arthur said in clipped tones. They really were getting a long way ahead of themselves, and on a path that wasn’t entirely pertinent right now. “Returning to Queen Orlaith, and the matter at hand.”

“Yes, Arthur,” Elyan responded with a show of deference. 

Freya was watching them all as if they were a bit mad, for which Arthur really couldn’t blame her.

“Orlaith sent me to discover the cause of the smoke, and to decide what to do about it. Then I must report back to her. The smoke was unexpected, that’s all, so they sought answers.”

“What are you going to do, then?” Elyan asked.

“Would you come back with us to the castle?” Arthur asked, trying not to make it an order. “I’ll introduce you, so they know you’re not a threat, and you can explain what you’ve been doing. … I imagine they won’t mind you returning here, if that’s what you want, once they know who you are.”

“And if I wanted to stay there … ?”

Arthur restrained himself from glancing at Niamh, and only said, “That’s not up to me. You’re free to ask the Queen, of course.”

“They’ve certainly made us very welcome,” Lancelot placidly observed.

“Just so,” Arthur agreed. And that was the end of the business part of their conversation. It seemed his first quest was well on the way to being fulfilled. 

♦

They stayed that night with Elyan, who then set out with them early the following morning for the castle. Elyan took pains to assure Niamh that the cairn was in the cooling down stages of the process, and there was no danger of it starting a forest fire while left untended. He also packed up a small load of charcoal to take with him, so that he could demonstrate its uses to Orlaith.

The five of them were making good time, so when they stopped for a rest in the middle of the day they agreed they might as well push on and aim to reach the castle late that afternoon. 

As they crested the last hill, they saw the castle and the lake and the surrounding forests spread before them under a glorious rosy sunset. The place could hardly have appeared more beautiful. Arthur looked to Elyan, whose slightly anxious and travel-worn demeanour dissolved into a delighted smile. 

Niamh was watching Elyan, too, and seemed pleased by his reaction. “Welcome to Avalon, Elyan.”

“Thank you, my lady.” After a moment, he frowned a little. “Where was I, then, if not in Avalon?”

Niamh tilted her head in consideration, and finally answered, “Avalon has many … aspects.” Then she smiled in an uncomplicated way and added, “There was no one to welcome you when you first arrived, and for that I’m sorry.”

Elyan thanked her again, and then fell in with Arthur as the others began making their way down the hill in the growing twilight. “I used to have nightmares about the Sidhe!” he whispered urgently in Arthur’s ear. “Gwen and Leon did, too. When we were children, the grown-ups would tell us how the Sidhe would snatch us away if we misbehaved – and our parents wouldn’t even miss us for _ages_, because they’d leave a changeling child in our place.”

Arthur smiled at him wryly. “I was told that if I wandered off on my own, I’d end up in Avalon and not be able to find my way home.” He let out a breath that was half sigh, half laugh. “I suppose that wasn’t far wrong.”

“But Niamh seems perfectly nice! Are they all like that? Not monsters or ghouls after all?”

Arthur shrugged a little and slowed their pace as he and Elyan drew near the castle. Other Sidhe were coming to greet them, some in their natural winged state, and others in their relatively human form, and he didn’t want to be overheard. “Gaius once told me they are a cruel people – and I certainly wouldn’t want to cross them without good reason. But you could say that about us mortals, too, couldn’t you?”

“I guess,” Elyan allowed.

Arthur gave Elyan’s shoulder a reassuring shake. “Gaius also said, ‘Approach a stranger with an open mind and a guarded heart – and then trust your gut.’ _That_ advice has never failed me yet.”

Elyan grinned, reluctantly at first but then more wholeheartedly, and then he nodded. Arthur was proud to walk into the great hall with Niamh at one shoulder and Elyan by the other.

♦

The hall was even fuller than usual that night, as if everyone was curious about the results of Arthur’s first quest. Elyan had set a fire with his charcoal – just a small fire within the huge fireplace, much smaller than the usual wood fires – and it warmed the place thoroughly despite the few tumbledown gaps in the walls. 

Orlaith had Elyan sit beside her at the high table, along with Niamh and Arthur. It seemed that all was well. Though, following his conversation with Elyan about the Sidhe, Arthur reflected that it was probably a good thing he was dealing with Orlaith rather than her late husband, Ainmire. Arthur had gained the impression that Ainmire would have been rather more ruthless in comparison, and perhaps even cruel, just as Gaius had warned him about. Instead, this small disparate group of humans had indeed been made very welcome, just as Lancelot had said.

That evening, Lancelot and Freya were sitting together at a nearby table rather than at the high table with the other human guests. They didn’t seem at all put out by this, and indeed were taking the opportunity to simply relax and enjoy each other’s company. The two of them were talking away together almost as if they were alone, and certainly as if they needed no one else at least for these few hours. Arthur had never seen Freya look quite so happy, nor indeed eat so much of the food that was served. She had discarded her shoes now the quest was over and, despite the efforts required during the previous days’ journey, she seemed as healthy and content as he could wish.

Later, as the evening grew late and the gathering began to dwindle, Freya bade Lancelot goodnight, and headed off out of the hall. Arthur took the chance to go and sit by his trusty knight, taking his own goblet and a fresh jug of mead with him. “Having a good time?” Arthur asked as he sat down in Freya’s place. 

“Oh, yes,” Lancelot replied with a warm smile. He leaned forward to prop his head on a hand and his elbow on the table – unforgivably informal, compared to his usual posture. “I am so utterly mellow that if you pour me another drink, I suspect I shall fall asleep where I sit!”

“Let’s take the risk,” Arthur said, pouring for them both. After they’d each taken a mouthful, he remarked, “Freya seems well.”

“Yes, she does,” Lancelot agreed, with his smile turning warmer still. “I am sure this has done her good.”

“Do you think she’ll stay, then? Here on dry land, I mean.”

Lancelot contemplated this for a long moment. His smile dimmed, but he still seemed content enough. “No, I always knew she’d return to the lake. I don’t know when. But her pain has eased, Arthur. She no longer feels … such an outcast.” Lancelot threw him a soft bright glance as if to reassure Arthur that he meant no ill by this: “She knew how to help me, when I was an outcast, too.”

Arthur nodded gently to indicate that no ill was taken nor would be given. “Will you return with her?” 

“Oh, no,” Lancelot immediately answered. “No, I belong here – or I am best here, if you know what I mean, just as she is best there. And it’s not as if we can’t visit each other, on occasion.”

“That’s good,” Arthur murmured. “That sounds very good.”

They drank their mead and shared a sweet easy silence, warm with contentment and shared truths. Finally, though, Lancelot stretched and slowly straightened up. “I shall retire, if you’ll excuse me, Arthur. I really do think that I shall sleep soundly tonight.” 

“A blessing on your dreams,” said Arthur, using the old familiar words not at all insincerely.

Lancelot’s dark eyes shone gratefully upon him as if Arthur had freshly coined the wish in that moment. “And also on yours,” he returned, before offering a respectful bow of his head and turning away.

♦

♦

Arthur was taking his time getting up the next day – or was it a couple of days later? He really did lose track of things here. In any case, while he felt more or less recovered, he wasn’t above using his convalescence as an excuse to take an easy approach to any given morning. 

Freya, it seemed, had other plans for him. “Arthur!” she called from below. “Arthur!” as she dashed up the stairs. She paused on the landing, but he was dressed and ready and his door was swung wide open. “Arthur,” she said in more reasonable tones as their gazes met.

“Come in, then,” he said, beckoning to her. “What’s all the excitement about?”

“Your friend is here,” Freya said breathlessly. “Your friend has risen from the lake.”

At the word ‘friend’ Arthur’s heart had immediately seized on the thought _‘Merlin!’_ – but a moment later he thought no, Freya would have used Merlin’s name if that’s who it was. Lancelot had told him that she loved Merlin, as so many of them did. In fact, there was no doubt at all she would never have left Merlin’s side to come running for Arthur. 

“Who is it?” Arthur asked once those quick thoughts had passed through his mind. He both yearned for and dreaded her answer, as he desired the companionship of those he loved but knew very well that their mortal death was too high a price to pay, and honestly he just couldn’t be so selfish as to wish for that. “Which friend?”

Freya didn’t answer him directly. “Come and see.” She turned, about to dash off down the stairs again. “Come _on_, Arthur.”

He followed her at a more reasonable pace. When he emerged into the gentle sunlight, he saw a small gathering around … Gaius, dear Gaius … The old man was leaning down to wring the lake water out of the hem of his long red robes, while happily conversing with Lancelot, Elyan, and Niamh. When he saw Arthur, his face lit up – just as brightly as Arthur’s did – and Gaius straightened and took a couple of unsteady steps in Arthur’s direction. 

Arthur was already jogging towards him, so it didn’t matter that poor Gaius was weighed down by the sopping wet robes. Nevertheless, Niamh settled a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a moment later Gaius was astonished to realise that he and his clothes were warm and dry once more. “Thank you, my lady,” Gaius managed to say – before Arthur was finally there, and they engulfed each other in a huge hug. 

“Gaius, my friend,” Arthur was saying. “My dear friend.”

“Arthur … Oh, seeing you does my old heart so very much good.”

Finally Arthur pulled away just enough to consider Gaius at arm’s length. The man looked older than Arthur remembered him, but happier, too, and there was no trace remaining of the anxiety Arthur had often glimpsed in him back when his father had been king. “You look well, Gaius,” Arthur said. “I hope that – Well, if it’s not too rude to ask –”

“You want to know how I died?” Gaius prompted, with an amused chuckle. 

“Well, yes, I suppose. I had hoped not to see you here for a long while yet!”

“Oh, it’s been long enough, sire. There was no violence or accident, if that’s what you fear for me. There was no untimely illness. Death comes to us all at last, Arthur, and eventually it was my turn.”

“But you weren’t _that_ old, Gaius! It’s only been …” Arthur frowned in thought. He honestly couldn’t say how long he’d been here in Avalon. In some ways it felt like forever, but looking back at the remembered days and the specific events, it might only have been a few months at the very most.

“In the mortal world,” Gaius explained, apparently knowing already what Arthur was struggling to understand, “twenty years have passed since the Battle of Camlann. Twenty years since Merlin sent you here, trusting that the Sidhe would heal your hurts.”

“And they have indeed healed me,” Arthur murmured with polite sincerity, though he remained distracted by thoughts of what had passed in Camelot and how far that was out of joint with what had passed in Avalon. “Niamh –”

“Arthur,” she said in the most graciously soothing tones, “why don’t you sit here and talk with your friend? There’s no hurry for any of us to do anything else today.”

When he looked around, he saw that chairs and rugs and cushions had been set in a semicircle facing the lake. Lancelot and Elyan were accepting platters of food and jugs of drink from the Pixies, and placing them on a low table. Freya was already curled up on the grass by the shore, watching glints of sunlight dancing on the water. And Arthur noticed that Lancelot had at last discarded the black clothing, and was instead wearing creams and browns, in which he looked far more himself. Everything Arthur saw bode well for his friends.

“Thank you, Niamh,” Arthur belatedly said. And he took Gaius’s arm in his, and escorted him over to the best seat, before sitting down beside him. Niamh tactfully headed off back towards the castle, while Lancelot and Elyan settled in the remaining chairs. 

They were all quiet for a few long moments, until Arthur said, “I’m sorry, Gaius. I have a hundred urgent questions for you, but no doubt you have some for us as well. We could spend days, all of us catching each other up! … But you seem to know where you are, anyway.”

“Yes, sire, this is Avalon. I asked to come here. I wanted to see you again, Arthur – and I wanted to know, sire, if I could be of any further use to you.”

“_Always_, Gaius,” he promptly responded. 

Gaius’s face bloomed with a smile. “So I asked Merlin to send me here –”

“Merlin … ?” But of course _Merlin_, Arthur chided himself. Who else?

“Yes, he knew somehow … He came to be with me in my final hours. I’m not entirely sure _how_ he knew, but I gave up being surprised by Merlin a long long time ago.”

Arthur scrunched up his face, feeling thoroughly bewildered. Nothing seemed to quite add up. “How could he _not_ have known? The two of you were like … a pair of old shoes. Never one without the other. Almost as if … the laces became tangled together on the day you met, and the knot only got worse over time.”

Gaius huffed a laugh, looking gratified. After a moment, he said, “This old shoe has had to manage without its mate for twenty years, sire.”

Arthur was horrified. “Merlin hasn’t been with you in Camelot?”

“No, sire. He … had his own business to attend to. He visited … that first Beltane.” Gaius looked a little self-conscious. “And then at the end. But it wasn’t for us to distract him, sire.”

Arthur had progressed beyond horrified and well into betrayed. “I was _relying_ on him to help Guinevere. Especially once I knew what he really was. What on earth has the idiot been doing that was so important … ?” Arthur let out a growl, and scrubbed at his face with both hands. 

When he looked up again, Arthur made an effort to get the conversation back on track. “And Guinevere?” he asked. “Is she well?” He indicated Lancelot and Elyan. “We are all dearly concerned with her welfare.”

Gaius nodded, looking around at them all. “The Queen is very well indeed. Arthur, you and Guinevere between you brought about the golden age that was long foretold for Camelot.”

He bowed his head in gratitude for Camelot’s decades of peace and prosperity. “Then Guinevere has achieved all I could have hoped for, and no doubt more besides.”

“It is true. She strengthened Camelot’s alliance with Queen Annis, and the two of them set about uniting the kingdoms of Albion.” Anticipating what might have been Arthur’s next question, Gaius added, “Annis is High Queen. They thought it best, or least controversial anyway, given Annis’s noble birth – though Annis declares Camelot has always been first among equals.”

Arthur was silent. Overwhelmed. 

Gaius said, “None of it would have been possible without you, Arthur. I am certain you would have been High King of Albion, if you’d lived.”

Arthur shook this off, unwilling even to discuss the notion that he had contributed – beyond, that is, choosing his own Queen wisely. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I am glad she had a friend like you to support her, Gaius.” _Damn Merlin for not being there!_ “And Leon as well, I trust?”

“Yes, sire. Leon is always at the Queen’s side. First among her knights, just as he was for Uther and for yourself.” Seeing that this news was welcome to them all, Gaius settled in to recount the fates of other friends. “Geoffrey passed on a few years ago, I’m afraid, but not before training a new archivist – and he’d finally finished writing his history of Albion, as well. Percival trains the new knights, and teaches them chivalry.”

“And none better,” said Arthur. “What about that rogue Gwaine?”

Gaius’s poignant expression conveyed the gist of that story. “I’m afraid we lost him even before we lost you, sire. He and Percival tried to prevent Morgana from reaching you and Merlin, but only Percival survived.”

“I am sorry for it.” Arthur sighed. “You probably know it was Merlin who finally killed her? It’s Merlin who brought peace to Camelot.”

“Yes, sire. But I still say that _you_ made all this possible. There could not have been a golden age without King Arthur to usher it in.”

He shrugged this off, and sat there leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging. All his urgent questions seemed to have died away, and his heart felt troubled and his soul turbulent. 

The others were silent. He wished they would talk amongst themselves and leave him be for a while, but they were respectful of … what perhaps they assumed was grief.

Eventually Gaius said, very quietly, and very close to him as if these words were for Arthur alone, “Merlin will be waiting for you at the last, Arthur.”

He frowned a little, and raised a hand to rub at his aching temple. “You mean I will be waiting for him here in Avalon.”

“No, sire.”

He couldn’t cope with any further confusions that day. Arthur turned away, and curled up in the chair, burrowing under a blanket. He was convalescing. He required a nap. 

“Never mind, Arthur,” Gaius said gently. “Just know that he’ll be there for you, and we can worry about the rest later.”

So, one bright morning in years to come, Arthur mused as he let sleep steal back through him, he’d be woken by cries of, ‘Arthur! Your friend is here!’ – and he’d walk down to the lake, and there would be Merlin in his old tunic and neckerchief, weighing barely eleven stones soaking wet, his grin broadening as he saw Arthur – and Arthur would demand ‘Where the hell have you been?’ … before dragging him close into a hug and never _ever_ letting him go.

♦

♦

Arthur found himself alone and at a bit of a loose end one afternoon, so he wandered towards the great hall to see if he could find his friends. To his surprise, Elyan was standing before Orlaith, apparently making a request or being questioned about something. Gaius, Lancelot and Niamh sat along a bench to one side of the hall, watching intently. 

Orlaith greeted him as he approached. “Arthur! Come and sit with me. We would benefit from your thoughts.”

He bowed his head, and said, “You flatter me, my lady.” Arthur stepped up onto the dais. There was a chair placed beside Orlaith’s throne, and while he figured no one would take offence if he sat there, he also felt it would be beyond presumptuous to do so while Niamh was sitting on a humble bench below. Instead, Arthur perched his rear on the chair’s footstool, and he asked, “How may I help?”

After a moment, Elyan explained, “I was asking permission to set up a cairn near here, so I can continue to make charcoal. Not within sight of the castle,” he hastened to add, “but not as far away as I was. As I was saying, Queen Orlaith, I’d be happy to bring you whatever charcoal you can use.”

“For the fireplace?” she asked, indicating the one there in the hall, where Elyan had lit a fire on that first night he’d come here. “It’s rarely cold enough for us to need to heat any other rooms.”

“And the kitchens?” Elyan prompted. “Perhaps your cooks would appreciate the fuel. And the laundries? As you’ve seen, it’s very effective.”

Orlaith smiled. “True. We will have to consult with the Pixies. I will leave that decision to them. You may find that we are slow to change our habits.”

Arthur asked, “What else do you intend to use the charcoal for, Elyan?”

He nodded, and glanced at Niamh, obviously remembering her injunction against weapons. “Nothing harmful, I promise,” Elyan said to both Arthur and Orlaith. “I can work with metals to create household goods, fastenings for clothing … jewellery to grace anyone’s beauty.” His gaze strayed to Niamh again, but then returned with a snap to Orlaith. “It depends on what mineral ore I can find here, and whether I can separate the metals myself. Of course, I don’t have my tools with me. I might end up accomplishing … very little, my lady.”

Orlaith was considering him carefully. “Then why do you wish to try?”

Elyan seemed confident enough about an answer, but he thought for a moment, as if he’d never had to put it into words before. “Blacksmithing is a skill I learned from my father, a useful skill, and I spent many years perfecting it – though I am still learning. I will always be learning. But it is an occupation that … that feels right to me.”

Orlaith nodded. “I believe I understand, as well as I am able.” She looked at Arthur before adding, “It sometimes seems to us that mortals here in Avalon actually _enjoy_ making things harder for themselves than they need to. Elyan, you will find here what you wish for.”

“And if he wishes for an occupation?” Arthur prompted. “I know I’m happiest when I have useful work to do, and so I am looking forward to the next quest you send me on, my lady. Elyan, for now at least, would like to devote his efforts to blacksmithing.”

Another regal nod. “It is a matter that we often debate with the Pixies. They like to be busy. They value creation and usefulness. We tend towards contemplation rather than action. In Avalon, we are all free to follow the paths that most appeal. Elyan, you are free likewise.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he responded with a low bow.

“Where will you go to find the mineral ore you speak of?”

“Are there mountains within your realm, my lady? I would start near the mountains, looking for silver.”

“There are indeed mountains. Niamh can guide you there. And, Arthur, if you will lead them on this quest for silver, then your second obligation to us will be fulfilled.”

Arthur stood, and bowed his head to Orlaith. “It would be my honour. Thank you.”

♦

Arthur wandered back out into the gentle sunlight, pondering over something Orlaith had said. ‘Elyan, you will find here what you wish for.’ This notion seemed connected with a few things that had been vaguely puzzling Arthur, including one thing very specific indeed. When Elyan joined him on the lakeshore, Arthur said, “Elyan. Those clothes you’re wearing. Where did you get them?”

Elyan, who’d obviously been thinking about other things, gaped a little and then looked down at himself. “My old clothes, Arthur. My favourite old comfortable clothes. What else should I be wearing?”

Arthur visually measured his mettle, but he’d always been plainspoken with Elyan and there was no reason to stop now. “You were a knight of Camelot, my friend, and that’s how we dressed you for your last rites.”

“Ah.” Elyan nodded. “I came ashore in my cloak and chainmail and armour, all wet through. I guess you did, too? You know how heavy it all was, even when it was dry. But I had my bag with me, with these clothes in it, so I got changed.” He shook his head as if all this was self-evident. “I wasn’t going to walk through the forest weighed down by all that – and it was cold, too.”

“All right,” said Arthur.

“I left it behind on the shore, if that’s what you’re asking. I can probably find it again, if you want me to.”

“No. No, that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

“Elyan,” said Arthur, “we did not pack that bag for you, or put it in the boat.”

Elyan just stared at him, not yet adding it up himself. 

“If you go and look in that bag now, maybe down the bottom of it underneath the charcoal and whatever else you’ve used it for – I suspect you’ll find your blacksmithing tools. Your favourite tools, or the most essential. Whatever seems reasonable for you to find.”

“So someone – not you, but maybe Gwen? – sent me into the next life with all I’d need?”

Arthur smiled a little. “If that makes sense to you, Elyan, then maybe that’s how it happened. But I suspect that, here in Avalon, we will all find what we most wish for.”

Elyan shook his head, not as if arguing with Arthur but as if trying to settle a number of disparate ideas into place. “I’m not sure quite what you’re getting at, Arthur, but I’m going to fetch my bag.” And with a grin, he dashed off. 

Arthur sighed, half troubled and half content. There were a couple of chairs conveniently placed under a tree by the lake, and he sank into one gratefully, and closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he heard Gaius’s quiet tones asking, “Are you all right, sire?”

“You really don’t have to call me that anymore, Gaius,” he said. When Arthur opened his eyes he found Gaius sitting beside him, looking at him with some concern. “I’m all right,” Arthur reassured his friend. “Just … restless, somehow.” Arthur sighed and added, “It seems horribly ungrateful, and it’s not as if we don’t have everything we need – but the thought of having to spend a hundred years here is beginning to … feel tiresome.”

“That’s understandable, Arthur.”

“Is it? Other people – Lancelot, for example – seem perfectly content. And Elyan is just happily getting on with things. While I sit here and complain,” Arthur concluded with a wry smile.

Gaius nodded. “You’ve proved that there’s much you can do here, Arthur. You can be useful to Orlaith, in helping her understand we mortals – and helping us understand the Sidhe in turn.” 

Arthur turned to Gaius with a query. “Didn’t you once tell me they were cruel?” 

“They certainly can be, sire, and I have dealt with a few who were utterly ruthless. Selfish to the point of remorselessness. But neither Merlin nor I would have sent you here if we thought the Sidhe would do you any real harm. … Won’t you help Orlaith now, with your counsel?” 

“You’re better fitted for that, Gaius. You should be the one sitting up there, sharing your wisdom. I’ll go help Elyan find his silver, and maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to fight off a wilddeoren or a wyvern.” 

Gaius laughed, but said seriously enough, “You are not only a great warrior, Arthur, but also a great king. You have much to offer here.” 

Well, Arthur wasn’t entirely unhappy to hear that, but he huffed a bit in dissatisfaction. There really didn’t seem to be much need for him here. It wasn’t as if Orlaith couldn’t manage perfectly well without him. 

Elyan came running up, and crouched on the grass before Arthur. He had a bundle of something in his hands, lifted towards Arthur as if he were making an offering. Reverentially he unwrapped the leather covering to reveal: “Hammer, tongs, chisel, crucible … You were right, Arthur, they were tucked away at the bottom of my bag. Gwen must have packed them for me. Like a knight is buried with his sword and shield, she must have made sure I’d have my best blacksmithing tools.”

Arthur grinned at him, and didn’t bother arguing about where the things came from. “That’s wonderful, Elyan.”

“They’re the smaller ones, too. Perfect for what I’ll need.” Elyan stood. “I’m going to show Niamh. She was asking about the process.” And off he dashed, like a child wanting to show off an unexpected gift. 

Arthur and Gaius exchanged a smile full of shared affection for their friend. Then they both sat back comfortably, and contemplated the lake. There was a slight breeze rippling the water’s surface, as if the lake itself felt as restless as Arthur did. Well, he had this so-called quest to go on, just as soon as Elyan was ready.

“Will you come with us?” Arthur asked Gaius. “To find Elyan’s silver, I mean. Freya will probably join us if Lancelot does, and there’s no great rush, so it won’t be strenuous.” He’d felt the need to explain this, even though Gaius seemed very spry for someone who’d lived into their nineties. In some ways, Gaius seemed to have more energy than Arthur himself did. 

“Oh, no,” Gaius equably replied. “You young people should go. I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourselves, getting out there into the countryside.”

“You must know how much I’ve always relied on your knowledge and advice, Gaius.”

“Thank you, Arthur. But I suspect Elyan is the one with the knowledge necessary to this quest. And I have so much to learn and explore right here.”

“If you’re sure …” Arthur added somewhat wistfully, “If you’re happy.”

Gaius nodded, and affirmed, “I am.” 

They were both silent for a while, but then eventually Gaius said, “I suspect you don’t need me here, Arthur. You have all you require.”

“I’ve always required you,” Arthur said – but softly. Not as if he were arguing. Gaius must be free to make his own decisions. “I’ve always benefited from your guidance.”

Gaius sighed happily, before observing, “You grew out of your terrible twos a long time ago, sire.” 

“What, when I turned three?” 

“When you turned twenty-one, Arthur, more or less.”

A laugh burst out of him. “Gaius,” he said appreciatively, “you always found the perfect balance between supporting me and reminding me that I still have a lot to learn.”

“I believe it’s called love, sire.”

“I believe it is,” he agreed.

♦

Arthur sat beside Orlaith at the evening meal, with Elyan and Niamh on his other side. Gaius, Freya and Lancelot sat together at a lower table, talking between themselves with great verve. Judging from some of Freya’s sinuous gestures and Lancelot’s rapturous looks, Arthur guessed that some of their conversation had to do with the delights of living in the lake rather than beside it. Was Arthur being too selfish when he found himself trusting that Lancelot wouldn’t return there with Freya … ? He shook his head, impatient with himself, and turned away hoping for something else to think about.

“I could use your advice, Arthur,” Orlaith said with exquisite timing. 

“Yes, my lady?” No doubt he was being stupidly transparent, and she could read his unrest. 

“You will remember that we spoke of my husband Ainmire, and his plans to unite Albion and Avalon through the bonds of marriage. I didn’t always agree with his methods, but it is a goal I feel is worth pursuing.”

Arthur tried to frown thoughtfully rather than grimace. “Yes, I remember. I’m still not sure that I’m in a position to help you,” he added warily.

“No, we realise that neither you nor Queen Guinevere, for different reasons, would be interested in forming such an alliance.”

He thought it better not to ask what those different reasons might be. He wasn’t always comfortable with the thought processes of the Sidhe, or their uncanny insights. “What advice can I offer, then?” he prompted.

“I was wondering if you’d tell me more of Annis, the High Queen of Albion,” Orlaith said.

“Oh!” Arthur said, scrambling to catch up with this unexpected request. “Annis is a fine queen. Wise, fierce and just. She rules Caerleon in her own right. A strong ally of Camelot. … What exactly do you want to know?”

“She has no king or consort?”

Arthur bowed his head, unable to speak for a moment. When the words came, his throat felt thick with grief and guilt. “As for a consort, you’d have to ask Gaius about that. Not when I knew her, but Gaius has more recent information. Otherwise … she’s widowed. I’m sorry to tell you … I had Caerleon killed when he led raiding parties into Camelot, and he was too stubborn to come to terms.” Arthur forced himself to straighten up and meet Orlaith’s gaze. He’d known he’d have to answer for this. “One of my first acts as king, and not one I’m proud of.”

“Yet you and she re-forged your alliance.”

“Yes. Annis is wise, as I said. Clear-sighted and forgiving.”

“I think perhaps,” said Orlaith, “I might seek an alliance with her.”

He took a moment, but the pieces of the puzzle wouldn’t quite fall into place. He hadn’t yet met any of Orlaith and Niamh’s kinsmen. “Not a marriage, then? Or … who would she marry?”

“Why, she might agree to marry _me_,” Orlaith declared. A raised eyebrow challenged him to just _deal_ with it, if he was so uncouth as to be surprised. 

The puzzle was finally complete, and after a moment’s consideration Arthur had to agree it made a very pleasant picture indeed. He laughed low, and offered Orlaith a respectful bow of his head. “You make me regret all the more that I am not in a position to participate personally. Though I will be happy to help you forge this alliance, if I can be of any use.”

“We appreciate your support, Arthur Pendragon,” Orlaith graciously replied. 

With perfect timing, the Pixies carried in the next course of the meal – platters of fruit and cake and other sweet creations. Arthur and Orlaith greeted them with happy smiles.

♦

One morning, as the humans and Niamh relaxed on the grass by the shore, Freya finally announced she was returning to the lake. “There is a freedom there that I miss,” she explained. 

Everyone was nodding in poignant acceptance of this long-expected decision. “We have appreciated your companionship,” Arthur said, “very much.”

“You will always be welcome here,” Niamh added, “if you choose to come back.”

“You’ve been kind to me,” Freya replied. “Kinder than – than almost anyone else ever has been.” 

Arthur knew who it was who’d been even kinder to Freya. None of them were ever very far removed from thoughts of Merlin. 

“Please thank your mother for me,” Freya said to Niamh. “She has helped me – so much.”

Lancelot, who’d been sitting on the grass beside Freya, murmured, “My friend, I hope you don’t mind that I want to stay here.”

She smiled at him gently. “Of course I don’t mind. Though I shall miss you.” 

He took her nearest hand and clasped it in both of his. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You were my saving grace.” Lancelot glanced around at the others before telling them, “I was so burdened with despair, I would have let my soul extinguish without Freya’s friendship.”

Arthur said, “We all have much to thank you for, Freya.”

There was a brief silence in which Freya looked both self-conscious and pleased – and then Gaius announced, “I must say my farewells, too. Freya has agreed that I can go with her, and explore the beauties and mysteries of the lake for myself.” 

Arthur sat up, shocked out of his gentle tones: “But there’s work to do here, Gaius.” 

“And you will achieve all you set out to do, sire.” 

“As you have always done, my old friend,” Arthur managed. Grief was wringing out his heart, but he also knew somehow that this was right, and he mustn’t cling.

“I am beyond grateful, Arthur, but you don’t need me anymore. And one long lifetime of work is enough. I think it’s time I went for a swim.” 

The others were standing, as if readying themselves. Freya and Lancelot had wandered a little way along the shore, talking together. Gaius and Arthur slowly followed them, walking companionably shoulder to shoulder. 

“Gaius, I need one last piece of advice, if you don’t mind,” said Arthur.

“Of course, sire. What is it?”

He took a breath, and said, “Every now and then I glimpse something … that isn’t really here. I mean, not _here and now_ in Avalon. As if there are layers … of other places. As if there are other peoples. And they’re _here_, but they’re also _not_ here.” He sighed. “Does that make any sense?”

“Yes, sire,” Gaius assured him. “I have glimpsed them, too.”

“Thank all the gods for that! I wondered if it was just me, but I never had that much imagination …”

“You can trust your senses, Arthur.” 

Gaius paused, and Arthur turned to face him – and they shifted together into a deep hug. “I shall miss you,” Arthur said. 

When they parted again, Gaius said, as he’d said before, “Merlin will be waiting for you when you return to Albion.” 

“How can that be? I’ve promised to stay here for a hundred years. No one I know will still be alive.” 

Gaius nodded, as if he understood but this wasn’t a problem. “Merlin isn’t immortal, but he’s very hard to kill. And he’ll live as long as he needs to.” 

“And he needs to see me again, does he?” Arthur asked sceptically. 

“Oh yes, sire. Just as much as you need to see him.” 

And with that, Gaius stepped away and began undressing, casting aside his long red robes. Arthur backed out of the way, and watched with a delighted smile. Avalon allowed for many freedoms, and not the least of them were the freedom to no longer be entirely proper, the freedom to no longer be too cold or too warm. 

Moments later, Gaius was walking naked into the lake. Arthur’s smile grew – and he politely averted his eyes, even though he thought the male form a fine thing no matter how worn by time and use. When he finally looked back, there was naught but ripples to show where Gaius had submerged.

♦

♦

Arthur knew he had been in Avalon for far longer than one season, despite it never seeming other than a late spring or early summer. As they left on the second quest, however – Arthur and Lancelot, Elyan and Niamh – it seemed as if they were walking into autumn. Almost as if autumn were a place rather than a particular time of year. Arthur had found a well-padded coat to take with him, on the assumption that the mountains would have a colder climate, and so he was comfortable enough in the crisp cool air.

In fact, he reflected, he was more than comfortable. He was enjoying the physical exertion of walking through this autumnal hinterland, feeling a deep satisfaction for the activity after being so long sedentary. The others continued on tirelessly at the same steady pace. They rarely spoke, as if each were content to dwell in their own thoughts. The leaves of the trees they passed by gently rustled every now and then, but otherwise the countryside was so quiet that Arthur could hear the soughing of gentle breezes through the further forest. 

By the time they stopped for a midday meal, mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks of bare pale rock sharp against the bright blue sky. Arthur eyed them, half daunted and half exhilarated at the thought of climbing them. 

Elyan let out a low chuckle as he interpreted Arthur’s gaze. “Don’t worry, we won’t be going that far.”

“Part of me almost wants to,” Arthur confessed. Lancelot glanced at him fondly. They both appreciated a challenge, after all.

“We’ll start with the streams running down from the foothills. The stones that have been brought down by the water might include mineral ore – maybe all we need, if we’re lucky. At the least, they’ll give us a clue about what’s up there.”

Arthur nodded his – limited – understanding. Elyan was obviously the expert here, and Niamh knew the countryside and could guide them. Maybe there wouldn’t be anything for Arthur to do but wade into streams and gather likely looking stones, but Arthur was enjoying himself well enough – and Lancelot was pleasant, undemanding company. 

Lancelot had been quiet – as he often was, Arthur mused, but particularly so since they’d left on this quest. It wasn’t that Lancelot wasn’t engaged with those around him, or that he kept himself to himself, or even that he was overly watchful or cautious. It was just that he was a quiet soul, content, with an equanimity Arthur had always found appealing. A composure for which Arthur had often envied him. Even the fact that Lancelot’s heart belonged to someone who’d chosen another didn’t seem to disturb Lancelot’s sense of peace. 

At his best, Lancelot had always been like that, Arthur thought. But maybe it also indicated that Lancelot belonged here in Avalon, that this was his proper fate. As opposed to Arthur, who was often restless with a yearning for work to be done, with an impatience to return to the mortal world. Well, in the meantime, at least he found Lancelot to be soothing company. 

The two of them kept together in this group of four, partly because it suited them, and partly because Elyan and Niamh had likewise paired off. Arthur kept a tactful watch on Elyan and Niamh for anything inappropriate or unwelcome, but it seemed that nothing untoward ever occurred between them – and frankly Arthur trusted Niamh to handle it, in the unlikely event that Elyan was fool enough to push too far. Even during the cool nights when each pair lay down close together for the sake of shared warmth, their embrace seemed as innocent as Arthur and Lancelot’s. 

After that initial burst of attraction from Elyan for Niamh, the two of them seemed happy to be growing into a true friendship. They would talk together about Camelot and Avalon, about the practicalities of blacksmithing and the ethereal concerns of the Sidhe. They didn’t exclude their companions or try to keep their talk to themselves, so Arthur learned a great deal from Elyan’s tales of his travels through Albion, and Niamh’s perspective on the Sidhe’s relations with the Pixies and with mortals. Niamh never spoke about her father or sister, though. Arthur wondered if that was because she didn’t want to confront him about his own unwitting role in their deaths. 

During the day, Niamh would at times transform into her natural state, and fly ahead of them or above them in order to spy out a likely direction. There were no paths to follow, but she guided them well enough, consulting with Elyan at every turn, while Arthur and Lancelot followed their lead with no complaints. 

When in her Sidhe form at night, Niamh glowed brightly – like a firefly, except she shone with a silver rather than a gold light. On the clear days, Arthur would often lose sight of her small blue form against the sky. Elyan always seemed to know where she was, though. She would fly down to him, and hover in the air before him, or sit herself down on his shoulder. 

That day, for example, as the three men rested within a forest dell during the middle of the day, Elyan turned his gaze up into the sky with a welcoming smile – and sure enough Arthur eventually saw where Niamh glided towards him. She perched on his shoulder and remarked, “We only need to cut across the ridge to the north here, and we’ll find the sort of stream you described.”

“Wonderful,” said Elyan with his grin broadening. “We couldn’t have got even this far without you.”

Niamh was sitting forward, radiating happiness. She patted Elyan’s shoulder through the blue tunic he wore. Arthur wondered how rough the fabric felt to her tiny hands. “You’d do fine without me,” Niamh was saying. “You’ve got Arthur to guide you, after all.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “I might be of some use, if I had any idea which direction north is.”

She pointed in almost exactly the direction he was least expecting, and the other two men laughed. 

“Just to clarify,” Arthur continued: “Do east and west in Avalon have anything to do with where the sun rises and sets?”

Niamh considered this with her head to one side in an exaggerated show of thought. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he echoed, with a genuinely amused laugh. Even the fundamentals here were topsy-turvy. Lancelot smiled at him, completely unbothered, of course. But Arthur really didn’t belong here. 

Lancelot murmured, “You’d find the way if you needed to, Arthur.”

“Would I?”

“You’d find the way to what you needed.”

This display of faith in his abilities was touching, but quite misguided. Arthur offered Lancelot a wry smile, and then turned back to continue watching Elyan and Niamh.

They chatted on together, already comfortably bantering with each other, even though Niamh remained in her Sidhe shape. Elyan seemed delighted with her, his grin wide and happy. Arthur couldn’t help but find it all mildly troubling. 

That afternoon, as they crossed the sharp edge of the ridge and headed downwards again, it came about that Lancelot walked for a while with Niamh – who’d returned to her more human-shaped guise – and Elyan dropped back to walk with Arthur. 

Lancelot and Niamh were talking quietly of something that seemed to demand all their attention – so, after struggling with himself for a while, Arthur finally blurted out to Elyan, “Don’t you find that … disconcerting? I mean –” He indicated Niamh with a nod of his head. “Not just that she’s not mortal. Her different shapes and sizes.” 

“I don’t think I’m mortal anymore,” Elyan said. “Not now I’m here.”

Arthur grunted in dissatisfaction, feeling that Elyan was deliberately missing the point. “I mean … not _human_.”

“You can love the disconcerting,” Elyan said, as clear and direct as he’d ever been. “As you well know,” he added. 

Arthur lifted his brows in surprise. “Guinevere is one of the least disconcerting people I’ve ever met. That’s one of the reasons she makes such a magnificent queen.” 

“True. But I wasn’t thinking of Gwen.” 

“Uh …” Arthur felt thoroughly befuddled. But Elyan strode ahead and joined the others, obviously not intending to explain any further. 

Arthur walked on, alone for now.

♦

The sound of water babbling over stones had drawn them forward for some while, despite the trees at this height being rather sparse, before the stream itself suddenly came into sight. 

Elyan cried out in wonder. “Oh, that is just the thing! Niamh, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she happily replied.

Elyan crouched by the clear water and ran his hands through the rocks and pebbles lying on the streambed. “_This_,” he said, holding something out to Niamh. It was darker than Arthur was expecting, but it glinted in the light, perhaps only because it was wet. 

“Mission accomplished, Elyan?” Arthur asked. 

“Maybe,” he allowed. “I’ll have to search further. But it looks promising.”

Leaving Elyan and Niamh to get on with it, Lancelot and Arthur started organising their camp, such as it was. These autumnal nights required a fire, so they gathered wood and set it up on a cleared patch of earth. Arthur assumed this would be a longer stay than usual, even if they moved on later to find other streams.

Elyan was taking advantage of the last of the full daylight to demonstrate to Niamh what he called panning. This involved scooping up water and stones in the wide shallow dish Elyan had brought with him from the castle, and deftly rocking it to sort through the useful and discard the not so useful. 

“This is what we’re looking for,” Elyan said, showing them a small scattering of fragments by the firelight that night. “Silver ore.”

Arthur scrunched up his face in doubt. “It doesn’t _look_ like silver.”

Elyan laughed. “No, you’re thinking of the finished thing, polished to a nicety. This is the ore, and it contains impurities. I’ll need to extract the silver itself.”

Thereby reducing these few fragments even further … “You’ll need a lot more than that, then, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Elyan replied undaunted. “And I probably won’t find it all here. The water will quickly break apart any silver ore that reaches the stream. But we can follow it up higher, if it looks likely, and there might be nuggets on dry ground. If we’re lucky, we’ll find the vein, and we’ll be able to unearth it with the tools I have with me.”

Arthur shook his head. There was more to this knowledge and these skills than he’d ever imagined. “Does Guinevere know all this kind of thing, too?”

“Oh yes, we were both brought up to it. But she never had time for it anymore once she started working for Morgana.” 

That name plummeted the three men into silence like a rock crashing into a lake. Niamh looked from one to the other for clues, but was too tactful to ask.

Eventually Elyan continued, “It will take a while, but soon I’ll be making a diadem for Niamh. And no matter how long I work on it, how finely I fashion it, how precious a stone I find to set in it – still it will only be a dull pale thing compared to her beauty.”

Niamh sat there returning Elyan’s gaze, positively _glowing_ as if she were in her natural state – and Elyan was glowing right back at her.

A silence grew again, this time charged with things understood if not spoken. Wonderful things.

At last Arthur cleared his throat. “Right!” he said. “Who’s for dinner?”

Lancelot turned his affectionate smile on Arthur, warmer than usual, as if their companions’ mutual glow were reflecting off Lancelot’s pale skin. “Count me in,” he murmured to Arthur.

♦

They spent days there by the stream – many days, or maybe even weeks. They continued camping where they were, in the shelter of the trees, but often foraged for ore higher in the foothills. Elyan and Niamh did much of the panning and searching about, but Elyan taught Arthur and Lancelot how to pan as well. 

It was strangely soothing, this gentle search for rare glimmers amidst the plain stuff of stones and earth. Arthur soon learned the rhythm of it, feeling the supple heft of it in his wrists. He was worried about missing something precious, though, as the silver simply wasn’t obvious to him, so he mostly left it to the experts. 

Instead, he and Lancelot took care of the camp and prepared the food. Not that Arthur ate much. He wasn’t sure if that was because of his recovering health, or because he wasn’t overly active now they were settled. Or maybe it was because he was happy, or because here in Avalon he might not actually need to eat. Lancelot ate very little, and seemed perfectly healthy, so Arthur suspected the last reason was true – though he knew he himself was more attached to his own mortal body, and Lancelot these days was all soul.

Elyan, to his own surprise, found all the silver ore he needed within a short distance of their camp. It did take a while, as Elyan had predicted, but it all worked out as it should. Arthur felt – he _knew_ by now – that was how Avalon worked, though Elyan was surprised and gratified to have succeeded in his search.

“Do you want to stay and look for more, for future work?” Arthur asked one evening as they sat around their fire. “Or will enough be enough for now?”

Elyan looked from face to face. “Are you all ready to go back? Enough is enough, I think – if we can find this place again?” he asked Niamh. “Or if you think we can find other places like this, now that you know what we’re looking for.”

“We can find it again,” Niamh confirmed, “and there are many other places to explore, when you want to.”

“All right,” said Elyan. “We can set off in the morning, then, if everyone agrees.”

Arthur nodded. He was ready to be on the move again, ready for the walk … ready for days of walking through this perfect crisp cool air, with Lancelot’s smile as warm as the golden-brown colours of the leaves, as pure as the blue of the sky, as uncomplicated as his embrace at night which kept the cold at bay.

Arthur was ready.

♦

♦

It had become a custom, somehow, that Arthur would sit with Orlaith on the dais in the great hall, and offer his thoughts on whatever disputes and grievances were brought to her. He never sat on the thrones – due to his own sense of what was right – but was comfortable enough sitting on a footstool, as he had the first time. 

Lancelot would make a point of being there, sitting on a bench off to one side of the hall and listening with interest, frowning in concentration at times, and gratifyingly impressed at other times when Arthur had made some modest point or other. 

None of it ever seemed overly dramatic, and it was usually entirely possible to guide any disgruntled parties into a mutually acceptable agreement. Arthur found it interesting enough, but not overly challenging. 

In the quiet moments he pondered the notion that a benevolent ruler such as Orlaith may help create such a state of affairs, while someone more … authoritarian and strict, such as Uther, might generate more conflict and misunderstandings in a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

“What are you thinking of, Arthur?” Orlaith asked as a brief lull turned into a quiet period that might last through to the evening.

He wasn’t going to raise a topic critical of his father. Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but no alternative topic presented itself, so he closed it again. 

“I’m afraid we bore you,” Orlaith continued, sounding completely unbothered by the idea. “Very few crimes here are significant.”

“A good thing, of course,” Arthur responded. “An excellent thing, and it’s to your credit. I confess … I thought that the issues brought here would be more complicated, given the lack of any written law on which to base your decisions.”

“No …” Orlaith considered this for a moment. “There is no disputing that the most serious crime of all is murder. To take an immortal life – that is unforgivable. Anything else matters little in comparison, and can usually be resolved by those involved … though at times they may require a little assistance.”

Arthur nodded. “We take murder very seriously, too, of course.”

“But an immortal life – the loss of what might have been thousands of years. Doesn’t that seem an even more serious matter to you?”

“Any life is worth protecting,” Arthur asserted quite calmly and reasonably. “Any life demands our protection.”

Orlaith inclined her head in acknowledgement, though it was obvious she didn’t agree. “I am not talking of relative worth. As you say, all life must be protected. But an immortal life, by its very nature, carries more weight. It is a greater thing to lose.”

“It doesn’t follow that a mortal life is a lesser thing. I could argue that the loss of decades or years – or even months – due to an untimely death is all the more hurtful when we have so few years given to us when we are born.”

There was a long moment of silence, before Orlaith at last said, rather stiffly, “I have much to learn from you, Arthur Pendragon.”

He didn’t really think she meant it, but he bowed his head graciously and responded, “And I from you, my lady.”

♦

Some days, despite his restlessness, Arthur did little more than spend long hours lazing by the lake. Lancelot was often with him, which was pleasant. Lancelot was undemanding company, willing to talk if Arthur wanted to, or remain quiet otherwise. If Arthur had been sent to Avalon in order to learn how to relax, there was a possibility he might pass that test. A slim possibility. No one could be more surprised at that than Arthur himself. 

One afternoon, Arthur found himself gazing at Lancelot, considering how utterly peaceful he looked. Peaceful, despite him being the quintessential knight of Camelot. Despite him loving a woman who could never be his. Lancelot belonged here in Avalon, and Arthur still did not. 

“Don’t you miss it?” Arthur murmured, quietly so as not to disturb the peace. “The mortal world, I mean.”

“No, sire.” A moment, before Lancelot offered, “I know that you do, Arthur.”

Arthur thought, as he suspected they both did, of Guinevere who was still in the mortal world. But for Arthur, at least, Guinevere seemed to be in the past. He’d loved her dearly as his friend and his wife, and he’d relied on her, and valued her counsel. He was still as proud as anyone could be that she was now the wise and respected Queen he’d known she could be. Arthur held no fears for Camelot, or indeed for Albion, while Guinevere – and Annis – lived. 

But his own part in Guinevere’s story had ended over twenty mortal years ago. Perhaps twice twenty years by now – he had no real sense of the time that had passed since Gaius returned to the lake. In any case, Arthur felt much the same. Guinevere’s part in his own story was in the past. A precious, wonderful memory. But it was over now. Arthur sighed. 

“What’s troubling you, Arthur?” Lancelot gently asked. 

He decided to come at it from the flank. “This notion that Orlaith wants to unite Albion and Avalon through a bond of marriage …”

“Yes, sire?” After a moment, it was Lancelot who took the direct route. “You feel your vows to Guinevere make it impossible for you to make a new commitment here.”

It wasn’t a question, but Arthur answered, “Yes.” Then he had to admit, “No … not my vows exactly, which were till death parted us. But it’s a matter of the heart.” His heart felt encumbered. It was not his to give. 

Lancelot’s eyes were closed, but his smile indicated his satisfaction. “Just so.”

“And _your_ heart … ?” Arthur persisted. 

“My heart is likewise pledged. Though I have no hope. There is no possibility …”

The silence grew between them. They were at peace with each other.

When Arthur felt they had given the silence its due, he said, “The solution is obvious, of course. Elyan and Niamh are already walking that path together. I don’t think it’s what the Sidhe had in mind – Elyan is already here, I mean, and had no kingdom to share. But surely an honestly made match with real affection is better than an arranged one.”

“I agree. And I suspect at this point we can probably let Elyan and Niamh work it out for themselves. Unless Orlaith needs some persuading, and then we can stand by him.”

“I agree,” Arthur echoed. Well, that resolved that issue. He didn’t fear that Orlaith would object, even if they would need to go through a ritual of pleading Elyan’s case.

Arthur was happy for him. Elyan might not have been looking for love, but it had found him, and he well deserved it. Niamh was a solid choice. Just as good a partner for Elyan as Guinevere had been for Arthur. 

He sighed again. Arthur missed that. The partnership and friendship as well as the love. And he suspected that he’d never find that again. Not that it was impossible. Guinevere and he were each other’s history, and he hoped that she hadn’t felt she needed to be loyal to his memory. A mortal woman had needs, just as a mortal man did. From what Gaius had said, neither Guinevere nor Annis had married again …

Unbidden came the notion that Orlaith had first planted in his mind: that Annis might not restrict herself to a man when it came to marriage. Could Guinevere have possibly … ?

It seemed unlikely to Arthur, no matter how pleasant a prospect it was to consider. Not that Arthur was one to judge, but it wasn’t quite the done thing in Albion as it apparently was in Avalon … though maybe it was time that should change. But in the meantime …

What about Leon? Another unbidden thought, but it felt more apt. Leon and Guinevere had been friends since childhood, and Leon had always been fond of her. He was an honourable man, and a good choice. Arthur trusted Leon to be serving the Queen in whatever ways she deemed best.

Arthur suppressed a wry smile, and glanced at Lancelot. He wouldn’t trouble Lancelot with such speculations. Not that Lancelot would resent the notion of Guinevere taking another lover; he would probably wish her well, once he was used to the idea. But there was no point in disturbing his peace if there was no real need to.

And Lancelot was looking so beautifully tranquil, through and through.

♦

When the time was right, Elyan stood in the great hall before Orlaith and Niamh who were seated in great dignity upon their thrones. Arthur and Lancelot stood tall at Elyan’s shoulders. 

“My lady Orlaith,” Elyan said firmly, “I am here to ask for the very greatest of honours. I have come to ask for the hand of the lady Niamh in marriage.”

Orlaith looked down upon him with just enough warmth to take the edge off a man’s terror. “And who are you, mortal, to set your sights so high?”

“He is a knight of Camelot,” said Lancelot.

“He is brother to a Queen,” said Arthur.

“And I am a man, but I’m no mortal,” said Elyan. “Not anymore.”

For a long cold moment Orlaith stared at him.

But then she turned to Niamh and asked, “What say you, daughter?”

And Niamh happily declared, “For myself alone I would say ‘yes’ with a glad heart, my mother and my Queen. But I could never be properly content without your agreement and your blessing.”

Orlaith turned a sharp gaze on Elyan again, but he stood there upright and yet at ease, as if he had no doubt at all of his and Niamh’s shared love and understanding. Arthur and Lancelot stood there likewise.

“Then I agree and I give you my blessing,” Orlaith at last announced.

Elyan was grinning like a mad thing, but he bowed low and said as soberly as he could, “I thank you, my Queen, and will be forever in your debt for this, the gift of your greatest treasure.”

Niamh’s grin matched Elyan’s, and Arthur and Lancelot were looking much the same. There was a happy buzz throughout the hall –

Arthur turned to look around him, and became aware of more beings there, shades and bodies overlapping, as if all the different layers of Avalon were represented here – all of them witness to this betrothal, all of them celebrating. 

Niamh stood and held her hand towards Elyan, then brought him up onto the dais and into her arms. They kissed, and a cheer resounded in wildly diverse voices, and Arthur could hear at least two or maybe three different tunes being played.

Arthur laughed for the sheer joy of it.

Lancelot slung a companionable arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go find some mead,” said Lancelot.

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Arthur replied.

♦

♦

“You’ll know it when you find it. And you’ll know the reason for it, and what to do.” That was the extent of Orlaith’s explanation of Arthur’s third quest. It wasn’t much to go on.

“In which direction should we travel? What sort of thing are we looking for?” There was no answer. Arthur shook his head in bewilderment. “Niamh, do you know where we’ll be going? I’ll rely on your guidance, as always.”

Niamh exchanged a glance with Orlaith. “Head for summer, Arthur. Head for the warmer weather.”

And the way she said that sounded like – “Wait – you’re not coming with us?”

“No, Elyan and I have much here to demand our attention.”

‘Much’ being each other, Arthur assumed, which was entirely understandable. Elyan, sitting beside Niamh, offered Arthur an apologetic shrug, but was obviously too happy to be at all sorry.

“Lancelot will go with you,” Orlaith said. “Lancelot will be everything you need.”

Arthur turned to look at the man standing at his side. Lancelot nodded, and said, “As you wish, sire.”

“Well, then,” Arthur said, clasping his hands together in a half-hearted display of resolution. “We’ll start tomorrow, if you can be ready, Lancelot. Or the day after, if need be. It doesn’t sound as if this quest is terribly urgent,” he dared to add. 

“I can be ready,” Lancelot agreed.

Orlaith looked pleased, even a little smug – while Niamh looked amused, as if she was in on the joke and found it delightful. 

_Well, then_, thought Arthur.

♦

They walked in a different direction to any Arthur had been before. Lancelot seemed to know what he was doing, or where he was going, or at least to have confidence that all would unfold as it should. He paced along at Arthur’s side when the terrain allowed, or he led the way or followed Arthur as these things naturally fell out. 

They didn’t talk much, but Lancelot seemed content, and Arthur was fretting only mildly about the purpose of this quest. How would he know it? What if he’d already passed it by without realising? This was almost absurd. 

“It will be all right, Arthur,” Lancelot murmured one morning, as if he could read Arthur’s thoughts. 

“If you say so,” Arthur replied a little churlishly. He didn’t like not knowing what he was doing.

Lancelot just smiled at him, completely unworried.

The weather soon grew warmer, as if they were walking into a place that was summer, just as they’d walked into autumn on Arthur’s second quest. It was becoming almost too warm, really, at least for practical purposes. Arthur decided it must have been a deliberate decision for the Sidhe to build their castle in a place that seemed on the cusp of spring and summer, with all the delights and none of the drawbacks of both seasons.

One long hot afternoon, at the perfect time, Arthur and Lancelot found themselves walking down a grassy slope. Towards the lower reaches, there were groves of full-leaved trees, and just beyond them a wide river wound its way, glinting now and then under the sun’s beams. It made for the most enticing prospect in all the world. 

“I don’t know what this quest is about,” Arthur announced, “but I’m pretty sure it involves a swim in that river.”

“Queen Orlaith advised you to trust your instincts, Arthur,” Lancelot agreed with a palpable sense of great anticipated satisfaction.

They glanced at each other, and giggled with a wicked innocence like children about to play truant from lessons and duties – and suddenly they were dashing down towards the river and discarding their clothes on the bank, before wading in and submerging. 

Arthur bobbed to the surface, shook his hair out, and shouted in joy. It was blissful on a hot day like this to be cool and wet and _alive_. Lancelot broke through into the air, apparently feeling exactly the same way. They shared another laugh, and then they were splashing about and whooping and chasing each other about – before finally lying back and letting the water support them, drifting along gently while the sun warmed their fronts and the river cooled their backs. The afternoon eased past, until –

“Our clothes!” Lancelot blurted – and then it was a mad scramble for the riverbank, and a loping run back to find their packs along with their tunics and britches and boots. 

Not that they bothered dressing again. It was far too nice a day to force themselves back into such restrictions. Instead they lay on the grass in the dappled light under the trees, and let the warm air dry them. 

Lancelot seemed so perfectly comfortable. He was beautiful, of course; his body as perfectly formed as his face, and both in such harmony with his soul. Not that he seemed at all aware of himself as a beautiful creature. When he caught Arthur contemplating him, Lancelot just smiled easily, and closed his eyes as if it were quite naturally time for an afternoon nap. 

Arthur didn’t sleep, but instead lay there quietly, feeling free to bless his sight with the most superb thing in Avalon.

♦

That night they set a fire, more for the sake of it than the need for warmth or light. A full moon cast a cool glow over everything that the gold of the fire didn’t reach. Arthur and Lancelot sat beside each other, as they’d done when Elyan and Niamh were with them, companionable despite not having any particular reason for being so close. 

They were clothed again by then, though still barefoot. … Even Lancelot’s toes were attractive. It shouldn’t be allowed, Arthur thought, feeling sweetly wry or wryly sweet. That one man should be blessed with as many qualities. Including just the perfect amount of humility. Not that Arthur minded. After all, he knew he’d been lucky himself in the game of chance that was being conceived, and he’d worked hard, too, to hone his skills and sharpen his mind. 

“Arthur –”

“Mmm?” he prompted. The night was quiet around them. Almost hushed, as if it were waiting. 

“I don’t suppose you’re wondering what I’m thinking about …”

_I don’t suppose you’re thinking about how marvellous you are, and how I’m pretty marvellous, too?_ Arthur laughed, low in his throat. “I was wandering off along my own path instead.”

“Arthur, there’s something I have to do.”

“All right,” he responded, though he had no idea what Lancelot was intending. 

A moment stretched. And then Lancelot turned towards him, contemplated him with the tiniest hint of puzzlement, and then lifted a hand to cup his cheek. Arthur sat there, more blank than actually confused. Unknowing. Lancelot leaned in closer, and his gaze dropped from Arthur’s eyes to his mouth. Which was when Arthur got an idea or maybe even two, but he still couldn’t claim to _know_.

Then Lancelot’s lips were on his own with the gentle press of a kiss. Arthur was still too startled to respond at first, but to his own surprise he wasn’t against the notion. Lancelot’s eyes were closed – so as not to be too confrontational, Arthur suspected. He let his own eyes drift closed, too, and then he tentatively returned the pressure. 

Slowly, then, Lancelot deepened the kiss, and it became a more mutual thing with gifts given and gifts received. It was beautiful, just as everything to do with Lancelot was beautiful. The kiss lengthened, they lingered there mouth against mouth … and then at last they gently broke apart. 

Lancelot sighed. Arthur considered him curiously – and when Lancelot finally opened his eyes again and let his hand fall away, Arthur’s questions must have been plain to read.

Another soft sigh, and then Lancelot girded himself and said very firmly, “I am a man … and _you_ are a man.” He leaned in to press one more brief kiss to Arthur’s mouth. “Yet we can share this love, this joy.” Lancelot nodded to indicate that this would be his main point, and he enunciated very clearly: “_Merlin_ is also a man.”

Arthur drew back. Though he hadn’t been touching Lancelot, he drew away. “I see,” he said, his thoughts whirling and yet something deep down inside him recognising the truth. Something deep enough to have been a foundation that had always been there, and always would be. “Is that what you came to teach me?” He felt the sinking sensation of embarrassment. “Is that what this quest is about?”

“I would answer ‘yes’ to the first,” Lancelot replied. “Only you can answer the last.” And Lancelot also drew back now. Not that he moved, but he withdrew within himself. For a few moments there had been no barriers at all, no shields or armour, between Arthur and Lancelot’s very souls. Arthur ached with grief at the loss, a bittersweet ache, a poignant yearning for something Arthur thought he couldn’t – or shouldn’t – have. 

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “Did that cost you? To show me that way, I mean. Was it a betrayal –” _of your heart_, he wanted to say. Lancelot no doubt understood. 

“Not a betrayal, no,” Lancelot replied with a low laugh, “for I have loved you as well.”

“And – and Merlin –” Arthur sat up with his arms round his bent legs, holding himself in. “Is it the same for him? I mean … when Gaius said he’d be waiting for me – ?”

A soft smile, fond for Merlin and for Arthur. “Yes, I imagine so.”

“You _imagine_ so? You don’t _know_?”

Lancelot’s smile kicked up in amusement. “You’re brave enough to go find that out for yourself, sire, aren’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. “I shouldn’t be the one to tell you.”

There was much to think about. Arthur felt as if the whole world had shifted around him and resettled into something new. Or was it only that he himself had shifted, and seen a new aspect of the world, a new layer he simply hadn’t perceived before? 

Lancelot sat there quietly, letting him puzzle it through. 

Until at last Arthur cried out, “Have I been a _complete_ dolt?”

“No, Arthur, not at all. You have just been too noble for your own good. Always putting Camelot and each and every one of its people ahead of your own needs.” 

“That doesn’t sound like the man I used to be. Really, I have been the most selfish prat …” 

“You must be thinking of a time long before I first met you, Arthur.” 

“Hhhmmm … maybe,” he reluctantly allowed – knowing very well that if Merlin were here he would cheerfully confirm Arthur’s general prattishness. 

Lancelot had a point, though, about Camelot. Obviously it had been of great importance for the people of Camelot – and of Albion, too – that Arthur had loved Guinevere and married her and made her Queen. If other loves had been left unrequited or unfulfilled … they mustn’t be left unacknowledged. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmured. “I know you loved Guinevere. I know you love her still.”

Lancelot glanced at him with a wariness that threatened to put up another barrier between them. And yet it also seemed that Lancelot almost trembled with hope, as if yearning for some kind of untangling of this intricate knot. 

Arthur said, “We both loved her, but it seems her destiny had other things in mind for her. Larger things than love or marriage. I don’t suppose it’s our place to mind about that.”

“Sire,” Lancelot said, his tone low and fierce, “that last time I came to Camelot –”

The two of them stared at each other in the firelight. Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about this. But he could hardly deny he’d opened the door to the subject, and it was hardly Lancelot’s fault if he wanted to walk through it. “Yes,” Arthur prompted. 

“I won’t make excuses, and you don’t want them.”

“All right,” said Arthur, still not feeling keen.

“I wasn’t myself,” said Lancelot. “Morgana brought me back from the dead, and I barely remembered anything but my name. I was a blank page, and she wrote what she wanted on me.”

_Bloody Morgana!_ Arthur silently seethed.

“It was she who told me of my love for Guinevere, and then sent me to ruin your trust in her before your marriage. It was only later I returned to myself and realised what I’d done.”

Arthur gusted out a sigh and forced himself to be fair. “What Morgana had done, then. Not you.”

Lancelot had never looked so sincere. Sincerely aching. Sincerely pleading. “I’ve never felt sorrier for anything in my life. Arthur, I promise you: If I had been myself, it never would have happened.”

“All right,” said Arthur, in tones that indicated he understood rather than fully absolved Lancelot.

“But all of that is beside the point, in the end. I am convinced that magic can’t force us to do something that is not in our nature, something that we don’t already want to do. And so while Morgana was the cause of what happened, it was a weakness in myself that made it possible.” 

Arthur thought about this for a long while, or tried to. It felt more like wandering in a fog. A few things remained clear, but perhaps they had always been so. Eventually Arthur assured his friend, “I understand what you’re telling me – and I forgive you, as I forgave her.”

Lancelot bowed his head in humble gratitude.

“The only thing I would ask,” Arthur continued, “is that you no longer think of love as a weakness. It is a strength. It is a power for good. It might get complicated at times, but if we behave with dignity and honour – as you have done, Lancelot – then we’ll muddle through well enough.”

“This is wisdom,” Lancelot murmured with utter sincerity. 

Arthur felt that perhaps it was time to shift the focus of the conversation to something a little less fraught. “You seem very familiar with – Well. Did you know that Merlin had magic?”

“Yes!” Lancelot sat upright again, and his face was no longer obscured. “I’ve known since the first time I came to Camelot. Merlin helped me defeat the griffin. Do you remember? I couldn’t have done it without him – he enchanted the lance I carried, so it could pierce the griffin’s hide – but of course he couldn’t claim any credit for it.” Lancelot laughed; a carefree sound. “Oh, it feels good to have the truth known at last.”

“You didn’t like having all the glory for yourself,” Arthur observed. 

“Oh, no, I didn’t like that at all.” Another laugh, and then Lancelot was visibly searching his memories for other things he could confess or explain to Arthur. 

And so they talked on, about Guinevere and Merlin, about love and magic. The night felt long. Perhaps it would be as long as they both needed to talk through all this. And then at last they lay down by the fire, huddled close – cuddled close – though they didn’t really need the warmth. Arthur slept like a babe.

♦

The sun was well above the horizon by the time they woke. The day felt full of warmth and promise. They shared a brief lazy kiss, and then they got up, shared a small breakfast. Afterwards, with a wordless agreement, they discarded their clothes again and submerged in the river. 

When Arthur surfaced, Lancelot was nearby, drops of water shining in the sun like precious stones set in his dark hair, glinting off his warm skin. They met again, embraced with strong arms around broad shoulders, and kissed – a hungrier mouthing now, less sweet but more potent.

“Do you want to –” Arthur asked breathlessly.

“Yes. Please, yes.”

“It’s something you _want_ to do?” Arthur persisted. “For your own sake, knowing what you know.”

“Knowing that our hearts belong elsewhere,” Lancelot confirmed. “Yes, Arthur. Please. Make love with me.”

Arthur gasped a little, and didn’t bother pretending that it was a cough or that something had caught in his throat. He took Lancelot’s hand in his, led him out onto the riverbank, and sank down onto the first stretch of long grass he found, bringing Lancelot down with him. 

They caught each other up in their arms, shifting to and fro, enjoying the tease and promise of skin against skin, finding configurations that felt right, shifting again when it didn’t quite work. Arthur felt alive in ways he’d never experienced before, and Lancelot – lithe and wild and enticing – seemed to feel likewise. His eyes were alight with pleasure, with delight.

“Lancelot …” Arthur groaned, “by all the gods, you’re beautiful …”

“My lord,” Lancelot muttered between panting breaths. “My lord.”

Arthur didn’t have any direct experience to draw upon, he didn’t really know what to do, but he’d had an idea or two that morning, a dream or two during the night. They only needed the simplest – the purest –

Arthur stopped their tumbling, and lay half over Lancelot, their thighs interweaving. Arthur’s hand, spread flat against that strong torso, ran down and further down until he finally took Lancelot’s cock into a comfortable hold. Lancelot cried out, arched up, his hips glorious. Arthur gazed down at this gorgeous creature, marvelling at him, at where he found himself. “By the gods,” he swore again - and he wanted to kiss, but he also wanted to watch, to drink in this amazing beauty as a pleasure in its own right.

Lancelot was already at the edge, hoarsely gasping in breath, his eyes unfocused and darting about as if confused by all the unexpected impressions received – but then as the end pulsed through him and out of him, his gaze fixed upon Arthur as ardently as if he were praying, as if Arthur were all the answer he’d ever need.

Which was all too much. Arthur had had other plans – vague ones, true – but with such an assault on his senses, he couldn’t help but just rut against Lancelot’s rocking hip, confidently riding Lancelot’s thrusts no matter how arrhythmic, his own pleasure pulsing through him, not as a separate thing but as part of the whole. 

As it ebbed away again at last, Arthur collapsed down onto his friend, his love, his dear companion, and they kissed a little, dazed, then shifted into a more comfortable embrace, and drifted off to sleep.

♦

When they woke they needs must make love again. Then they quickly bathed in the river before returning to the bank to lie together in the grass, Arthur curled around Lancelot – cradling him, almost. 

Lancelot wanted to talk. He twisted a little at his waist and pushed back, while Arthur propped himself up on an elbow, so they could see each other. 

“I have to thank you, Arthur,” Lancelot said, with clear calm simplicity. “My first time, probably my only experience – It’s been more than I could ever dream it to be. It couldn’t have been anyone but you.”

“Your first?” Arthur repeated, feeling somewhat overawed. _Your first and only?_

“There was one kiss – I hardly even remember it, and I’m sorry for it.”

“_I’m_ sorry,” Arthur said awkwardly. And he didn’t mean anything about jealousy or betrayal. He’d always known that Guinevere and Lancelot cared for each other. He couldn’t begrudge them one kiss, especially not now. He even wished it had been a proper kiss, full of love. 

Perhaps he could make up for the lack in Lancelot’s life, at least in a small way. And he trusted that Guinevere was likewise kind to herself and to any lover she might have taken.

“Lancelot,” Arthur said – and he waited until the man’s gaze returned to his. “I’m yours now, for however long you want. However long you need. I promise.”

A poignant smile welcomed this. “Thank you, Arthur. I won’t keep you long. It needn’t be a great while. But I appreciate it more than I can say.”

♦

They spent long lazy loving days together there by the river. There didn’t seem to be any point in moving on. The place was perfect.

And Lancelot – usually so retiring – was in the mood to talk, so Arthur felt free to take advantage. “Why do you think it’s so important?” he asked one morning. “That Merlin and I are to be lovers, I mean. Why did Orlaith send me on this quest just to find it out?”

“Maybe your love will give you strength when you need it,” Lancelot answered readily enough. 

“You said love was a weakness.”

“You convinced me love is a strength,” Lancelot countered with a beaming smile. “Maybe your love is a reward in return for all you do. You always think of others, and put them first. You deserve something for yourself alone. You deserve to be happy, Arthur.”

“With _Merlin_?” he asked sceptically.

Lancelot just laughed, apparently knowing that Arthur knew he was already committed. This – this was pleasure and love and friendship. All the very best things in life. Merlin would be … all that and more. Merlin would be epic. 

“Gaius once said,” Lancelot mused, “that it was destiny Merlin and I met. I never knew quite what he meant. Then I thought it was about me going through the veil between the worlds in Merlin’s stead. The thought of a shared love, a shared destiny, gave me the strength to do that. Now … I wonder if Gaius saw this far ahead.”

“Well, if he already knew about me and Merlin, I wouldn’t put it past him.” Arthur laughed. He paused for a moment, and then asked quietly, “When I go back to the mortal world, are you happy to stay here?”

“Yes, I am happy here.” It was the simple truth.

“Good. You can go visit Gaius in the lake sometime, and ask him. Do me a favour, and tell him something about this and make him blush, would you?” 

♦

Days and days and days passed. They indulged themselves as blissfully and thoroughly as any two souls could do. 

And then one morning Arthur woke and he was ready to move on. Judging by Lancelot’s gently forlorn yet contented expression, he knew that it must be so.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Lancelot said. “This time has been precious to me. The memory of it will always be precious.”

Arthur cleared his throat. He wanted to say something – not too much, nor too little. “I’m sorry – to leave you.”

“But you must,” Lancelot said lightly, with a genuine smile. “Destiny cannot be denied. And I am – I have always been – happy to live a chaste life. That means all the more when I have had the chance to love, to have real love, as well.”

Arthur pressed one last kiss to the man’s lips – in friendship, an acknowledgement, and a lord’s blessing. “You are the best of us, Lancelot. You always were.”

The man demurred, but he also turned away to hide the pleasure showing pink on his cheeks.

♦

When Arthur stood before Orlaith in the great hall and asked to return to Albion, the Queen considered him carefully. “You belong here more than you know, Arthur Pendragon,” she pronounced. “You are impatient to return to the mortal world, and to Emrys, but you can choose to return here to Avalon when your time is finally done.”

He bowed his head as graciously as he could. “Thank you, my lady.”

Maybe he had betrayed his instinctive reluctance to return, because her gaze turned sharp. After a moment she said, “You are aware of the other-wheres and the other-whens that share this place and time.”

Arthur was surprised that she knew. “Yes. I have glimpsed them, but that is all. Gaius saw them, too.”

“Gaius is a man of clear sight and great wisdom.”

“I agree,” Arthur said, with a slight bow for this compliment to one of Camelot’s most beloved citizens.

“You obviously share some of that sight, that wisdom. Do not underestimate what you can do in Avalon, Arthur, if you have a mind to be here.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he repeated, though with real sincerity this time. It really depended, he thought, on Merlin. 

“Thank _you_, Arthur Pendragon. Now you may go. Of course you may go. It was not our intention to imprison you, but only to hold you safe until you were ready and Albion was in need of you.”

“Ah.” It seemed he had misjudged the situation. Had it even been a hundred years, or was that just an arbitrary figure? Maybe Arthur wasn’t so wise or perceptive after all. “Thank you again,” he said with a full bow. And then he turned away, and went to say farewell to his friends. 

♦

Elyan and Niamh walked hand-in-hand with matching broad smiles, accompanying Arthur and Lancelot down to the lake’s edge – though Elyan’s smile dimmed a little as he wished farewell to Arthur. “We’ll miss you,” Elyan said. “We’ll all miss you. But thank you for leaving us with Camelot’s finest knight.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, and grasped Lancelot’s upper arm, making a grand display of his unwillingness to let the man go. “Come with me,” Arthur asked him. “Albion has need of us. You, me and Merlin. There’d be nothing we couldn’t do together.”

Lancelot’s cheeks were pink with pleasure again. “I thank you, sire, but – no. Not that the idea isn’t tempting, but I think I must stay here. If I have work to do, it is with my lord Elyan and my lady Niamh.”

“Well, then,” Arthur said, having known what Lancelot’s answer must be, but needing to ask regardless. After a moment, Arthur hefted Excalibur by the hilt, and held it out towards Lancelot. “Will you ask Freya to look after this for me? Until I need it again.” 

Lancelot lowered his head in reverence. “Of course, sire.”

When Lancelot stepped forward to take the sword, Arthur let it go – and then he reeled the man in for one last long hug, and murmured in his ear, “If ever Guinevere should find her way here –” 

“_Arthur_,” Lancelot said brokenly.

“– then trust in your heart. You have my blessing, if you need it, though I’m not hypocrite enough to think you do. Follow your heart, my friend.”

Arthur let Lancelot go, and stepped back. There were tears running down the man’s face, and he tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead, at last, Lancelot bowed low to Arthur, and he turned away – and just as on the first day Arthur had met him here, Lancelot paced along the edge of the lake towards the forest to what Arthur thought must be north. This time, he had Excalibur tucked into his belt.

Arthur watched him walking away for long moments. Then he turned to Elyan and Niamh to clasp their hands in a wordless farewell – and then Arthur stepped down into the lake.

♦

♦

He re-emerged in the mortal world on a winter’s day. The sky was grey with clouds and, reflecting this, the water of the lake looked like lead. But what was of more immediate importance was the cold wind biting through Arthur’s wet tunic and britches as he waded into the shallows. 

Arthur stepped slowly up onto dry land, looking about him, wrapping both arms around himself in a futile attempt to hold onto his own warmth. There was no one about. The place seemed deserted. And while the grass and trees and gentle green hills felt familiar, he didn’t recognise anything in particular, and there were no buildings in sight. 

He kept moving, knowing he probably only had a short time in which to solve this problem. What an ignominious return to Albion it would be if he died of exposure to the elements before he’d even so much as greeted another human being!

There were trees to the left of him where a forest sloped down towards the lake; he headed there for the sake of shelter, hoping to at least get out of the wind. As he drew closer, he saw a pile of something at the foot of a tree, the dark blue-grey colour indicating it was mortal-made, and the texture or perhaps the way it fell indicating it was cloth. Arthur stumbled along as fast as he could. There was a drape of fine white silk amidst the whole, and silk meant warmth … 

As he drew closer, though, Arthur saw that it was an old man asleep, lying half on the ground, half propped up by the tree. An old man with long white hair, in oddly fashioned clothes. Well, if he was too frail or vulnerable to lend Arthur his coat, he might at least point the way towards the nearest habitation – 

Then Arthur realised who it was.

“By all the gods,” he muttered through lips thinned with cold. He got as far as he could, and kicked at the nearest booted foot. “Merlin!”

The old man shifted away from the disturbance, muttering petulantly, “Sleepin’, ar’n’ I?”

“_Emrys_ – if you don’t wake up _now_ – you’ll have to explain a dead king – to both Avalon and Albion.”

A snort greeted this, as if it were all a preposterous dream.

Arthur’s teeth started chattering. There was only one thing for it. He gathered what remained of himself and cried out, “Merlin – lazy good-for-nothing! – You are the _worst_ servant – in this world or any other!”

Before the end of his tirade, Merlin had woken, and then scrambled up to his feet – and there were the ocean-blue eyes Arthur remembered, just as clear and vibrant as ever, and the gorgeous huge grin, amidst the wrinkles of an honourable old age. “Arthur! You’re back!” 

  
[](http://inkwellfiction.com/cello/merlin/joy-forever.jpg)  
  
_**A Joy Forever**_  


And Arthur was gathered into a fierce hug, which was lovely and very welcome, but Merlin was too wrapped up in layers of clothing to share any of his body warmth. Arthur was not only shivering but actually shaking by now. 

“Merlin – dry me – magic – saw Niamh do it – for Gaius – dry my clothes – with magic.”

“You saw Gaius?” Merlin broke away to ask. “In Avalon?”

“Yes. _Dry me!”_ he ordered with the most frustrated grimace Merlin had ever inspired in him. Which was saying a lot. 

“Oh, yes. Right.” He didn’t lay a hand on Arthur, as Niamh had done with Gaius, but simply cast a look at Arthur’s tunic. There was a flash of gold in Merlin’s eyes – and suddenly Arthur was dry again, clothes and boots and all. 

Which was a great relief, but Arthur still badly needed to warm up. “Lend me your coat?” he asked.

“Mmm …” Merlin unfastened it, and shrugged it off, before helping Arthur into it. And while Merlin was still dressed in some kind of thick woollen tunic, he started shivering, too, like the skinny old man he was. 

“Merlin –”

“I know. I’ve got a room at a – a pub near here. A pub, a public house, like an inn. Won’t be too much of a shock to you. Well,” Merlin added, with a humorous glint in those blue eyes, “wait ’til you see the indoor plumbing!”

“Really, Merlin?”

“Right!” Merlin nodded, and turned away a little. “First things first. Don’t watch. I’ll turn back into – the me you knew. I won’t feel the cold myself so much then. Close your eyes!”

“You don’t have to hide from me anymore.”

“It’s not that.” Merlin cast him a self-conscious look. “I don’t want you to see me – transforming. Might look a bit weird. Dunno. I’ve never watched myself, or seen anyone else doing it.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “All I care about right now is not dying of exposure, _Merlin_, and you’re vain enough to be fretting about – Oh.”

The old familiar – or rather the young familiar Merlin stood before him, with his cheekbones and his ears and his thick mop of dark hair, and those eyes, those eyes as deep and wide as oceans in which Arthur could happily drown himself, just so long as the oceans were _warm_. Arthur desperately wanted to press a kiss to the silly grin on that mouth, but he feared that would only distract Merlin further. 

“Take me to this pub, then. I hope you have a fire in your room.”

“Better!” Merlin said, leading him off. They walked arm-in-arm, huddled close together for warmth. “It’s got central heating!”

Arthur muttered something that was unintelligible even to himself, and ignored this bit of information – just as he ignored a whole lot of new and inexplicable things encountered in the walk from the lake to the pub and up the stairs to Merlin’s narrow room. His desire for survival helped him focus only on what was important to that end. Soon he was in a room that was warm despite there being no fireplace, but the bed was recognisably a bed – and better still, Merlin got Arthur’s boots off and helped him under the covers. Even better than that, Merlin stripped off his own clothes down to a snug, odd-looking tunic and some _very_ short britches, and clambered into the bed with Arthur. 

There was no question of – anything, really, other than a shared warmth and a health-giving sleep. But Merlin seemed surprised by just how close Arthur snuggled into him, and it was only when Merlin finally relaxed into the embrace that Arthur felt able to let himself go …

♦

When Arthur woke, he was warm all the way through – too warm, even – so he pushed aside some of the coverings, and shifted around to look for Merlin. There was a steady light coming from … something that wasn’t a candle. And sitting within the circle of light that the not-a-candle cast, Merlin was on the floor with his back to the bed, down by Arthur’s feet, reading. He looked up after a moment, and grinned broadly, as if he couldn’t help himself. “How are you feeling?”

Arthur nodded. “I’m well.” He considered this carefully, but his growling stomach was hardly subtle. “I’m hungry.”

“Good.” Merlin stood and looked about for a moment, and then came to a decision. He pulled on his long britches, and slipped his feet into shoes. “Wait there. I’ll go down and order something. Don’t – don’t touch anything.”

Arthur sat up once Merlin had left, and considered the things around him. Some were much the same as he was used to – a table was a table, for example, and a chair was a chair. Others looked different but were still recognisable – Arthur scrambled out from under the bedcovers, and pulled on Merlin’s woollen tunic, with its large weave that reminded him more of chainmail than cloth. Still other things were a complete mystery to him – objects hard and smooth, made of something other than wood or stone or metal, with thick cords attaching them to the walls. 

The door swung open, startling him, and Merlin walked in – reaching to touch something on the wall by the door. A loud click, and more light flooded the room. Arthur blinked hard, and then shut his eyes for a moment in the glare.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, coming to sit by him on the side of the bed. “I should have warned you … You’ll get used to it.”

“A lot has changed,” Arthur observed, “in a hundred years.”

“A hundred years?” Merlin repeated incredulously. “Is that all it’s been for you?”

“Yes,” he said, not liking the defensiveness in his own voice. “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure how long it’s been exactly. There were days and nights there, but there weren’t seasons in the way we know them in Camelot. There was no way of counting the years that I was aware of.” He sighed. “Time passed. A lot of it.” Arthur looked at Merlin. “How long has it been for you?”

“A thousand years.”

“_What?!_ Literally?”

“More or less, yeah … What do you mean, ‘literally’?”

“I just … Queen Orlaith talked of me staying in Avalon for a hundred years. I wondered if she just meant for ‘a very long time’.”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you here in – in Albion, but it’s Britain now – for a _bloody_ very long time.”

Arthur looked at Merlin mutely, wondering if such expanses of time apart had turned them into strangers. They stared at each other for a long moment – and perhaps luckily were interrupted by a muffled knock at the door.

Merlin got up to let a man into the room; he was carrying a tray with platters of food and glass goblets of drink, which he placed on the table. “Here we are, Merlin. Emrys ordered you two roast beefs with all the trimmings, and two ciders …” A confused glance at Merlin’s companion. “Isn’t he here, then? I’ll bring up a third plate, shall I?”

“No, don’t worry about Emrys, he’s all sorted. This is my friend Arthur.”

“Evening,” the man greeted him, still confused but friendly enough; Arthur nodded in acknowledgement. Then Merlin was ushering him out the door, and locking it behind him. 

They were alone. And Arthur tucked readily into the meal, needing no help at all in using the cutlery, and too hungry to care if he got it wrong. 

♦

Once their hunger and thirst were satisfied, they sat on the bed with their backs against the wall, and their legs stretched out long before them. A silence grew, and gradually became more comfortable. 

Eventually Merlin asked, “So, what was Avalon like?”

“Strange,” said Arthur with a sigh, “but familiar. Like being here now, I suppose, with some things the same and other things … not.”

“And Gaius was there?”

“Yes, for a while. He said you’d sent him.”

“I did,” said Merlin. “It was his dying wish. Still,” he added with a shrug, “I never really knew if it worked or not.”

“Gaius was there,” Arthur confirmed again. “He’s happy. He is actually living _in_ the lake now, with a friend of yours – Freya.”

Merlin looked astounded. “Freya’s there? You _met_ Freya?”

“Yes, and she’s happy, too. Everyone was happy,” Arthur grumbled, “but I was too impatient to get back to the mortal world.” _To get back to you_, he silently added, considering Merlin carefully. Was it too soon to say that? Did Merlin know, or expect – ?

“Everyone?” Merlin echoed. “Who else, then?”

Arthur nodded. “Elyan. He’s the happiest of all, I should think; he’s marrying a Sidhe princess! The lady Niamh. I heard there were plans afoot for her sister to marry me, and unite Albion and Avalon, but apparently you and Gaius nipped that one in the bud.”

“Ah, yes.” Merlin looked rather conscious. “It didn’t end well. Did they hold that against you?”

“Not so much. It seems they knew I was just an innocent bystander. Niamh was a good friend to me, actually. And it didn’t seem to occur to them to blame Gaius at all.”

“Good,” said Merlin, before losing himself in his thoughts.

After a while, Arthur said, “Look. Is there any chance that Guinevere might end up in Avalon?”

Merlin gusted a breath in surprise; Arthur had forgotten how everything Merlin said or did was louder or larger than normal. “Why?” Merlin blurted. “I mean, no … unless … But why? Do you want to go back? D’you want to have her there with you?”

“No,” said Arthur, “I think she should go because Lancelot’s there.”

Merlin stared at him, astounded all over again. And then tears welled in his eyes. “Lancelot? _Our_ Lancelot? You know, that last time he came to Camelot, it was actually a Shade that Morgana conjured up. It wasn’t _him_.”

Arthur nodded. “I know. He explained as much as he could. And –” he swallowed hard, “I feel it’s their time now. It was her destiny to be Queen of Camelot, and I loved her dearly. But if you think she’d like to be with Lancelot now as much as he’d like it, then I wondered if there was a way …”

“Maybe,” Merlin said, obviously mentally scrambling to catch up. “Maybe. She was a reigning monarch when her time came, you see, so they buried her in the crypt under the castle – next to your mother. But if we could give her – or something significant of her mortal remains – to the lake, then her soul could continue on to Avalon – if that’s what she wants.”

“Well, we should think about how to do that, then.”

“Okay …” said Merlin – and when Arthur looked oddly at him, he said, “All right, we will.”

“There are choices to be made there,” Arthur continued. “There isn’t just one Avalon, did you know? It’s as if there are layers of different Avalons … She could do as she pleased, go where she pleased, with Lancelot or without. And he’ll be all right, one way or the other. But I thought it would be good … if they had the chance.”

Merlin was still scrambling, and looking a little boggle-eyed. After a long moment, he asked very carefully, “And you … ? What will you do?”

“There must be work to be done here,” Arthur briskly replied, smoothly cutting right past any question of who he might do such work with.

“Oh god, yes,” Merlin agreed. A beat, and then he asked, “Did you know about _your_ destiny, then? It was said that ‘when Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will rise again’. That’s why I’ve been waiting for you. It was this whole big prophecy.”

“Was it, indeed,” he said flatly. 

“And the country is in a right shambles just now, so your timing is totally spot on.”

Arthur frowned over this notion. “I don’t know if I can take the credit for that … I did feel – instinctively – that it was time to come back. But, then again, I spent most of the hundred years, or whatever it was, just waiting to come back. So, I don’t know.” He turned the frown on Merlin. “Do you think the Sidhe are invested in that prophecy? They were keen on uniting Albion and Avalon, so maybe it’s in their interests to send me back when Albion needs me … ?”

Merlin just shook his head in wonder. “It’s massive, innit? And I’ve got, like, a thousand years of history to catch you up on. Not that I always had the first idea what was going on!”

It seemed Arthur wasn’t the only one feeling a little overwhelmed. He reached to take Merlin’s nearest hand in his, loosely. Reassuringly. “Tonight it’s just us. Albion and Avalon can wait for the morning.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Merlin. “It’s been quite the day already.”

“There’s one thing I have to ask, though.”

“Right. About the indoor plumbing? I’ll have to show you how it works, sorry –”

“_No_, you idiot,” said Arthur, tugging on Merlin’s hand as he made to get up off the bed. When Merlin settled beside him again, Arthur asked, “Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask: Can I kiss you? Again, the rest can wait, but I thought maybe we should at least establish –”

“What?” Merlin said again, looking rather dazed. 

Arthur huffed a laugh, and explained, “It took a few very determined Sidhe, not to mention many of our mutual friends, to get it through my thick head – that I love you.” 

A brief moment passed – and then Merlin burst into a grin, the broadest grin Arthur had ever seen. But he didn’t say anything or return the sentiment. He just barked a laugh: “Ha!”

“For some reason, I thought this news might be welcome to you.”

“It is,” Merlin replied, though obviously still contemplating a quibble or two. “Absolutely it is welcome.”

“So, can I kiss you, then?” Arthur asked, feeling rather impatient. He’d thought this would be a nice easy positive way to round off a momentous day. 

“Well, it depends … Do you want to kiss me-Merlin, or me-Emrys?”

Arthur blinked. “To be honest … whichever of them wants to kiss me!”

“Good answer! Seriously, though.”

“Seriously, though: either,” Arthur replied, his tone sharpening. “Are you really Emrys now? … Were you always really Emrys, and only pretending to be Merlin?”

Merlin looked thoughtful. “It’s true that my father kind of implied that Emrys is my true self …”

“The fellow who brought up our meals is going to be rather shocked tomorrow when he realises which one of you I’ve spent the night with …” Arthur let out a laugh, genuinely amused at the thought.

“You honestly wouldn’t mind?”

“No. You decide, and let me know.” Arthur lifted an enquiring brow. “Who was your father, by the way? I can’t say that I ever knew.”

“Balinor, the dragonlord,” Merlin answered him somewhat absently.

“Really? Oh, I see …” Some things became clearer at last.

Merlin remained thoughtful for a moment, but then he crossed his long legs and shifted around to face Arthur. “Kiss me, then, Arthur, if that’s what you want.”

“Is it what _you_ want?”

“More than anything.”

“Good,” said Arthur with an intense sense of satisfaction – before leaning forward and at last pressing his mouth to the most beautiful lips he’d ever known.

♦

They kissed for a while, just sitting there, not moving into a hug. It wasn’t passionate; it was barely even affectionate, but that was all right. Arthur supposed they were still getting used to being together again, let alone being together as lovers. 

Eventually they drew apart. The winter night was already dark, and even if it was still fairly early Arthur felt it was time to settle for sleep. Before they moved, however, Arthur asked, “Did you always care for me? In this way, I mean.”

Merlin looked a little wary, but after a moment he said with simple clarity, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur replied. “It seems destiny had other plans for us, back then.”

Merlin kind of guffawed, which turned into a yawn and then a soft smile. “It’s funny, hearing you talk about destiny. Being able to share everything with you. … I like it!”

Arthur returned his smile. “I like it, too.”

They got up and undressed – both stripping all the way down this time. Both of them were showing signs of mild arousal, but it seemed to be agreed between them that it wasn’t time for that yet. Merlin was yawning again, which set Arthur off, too. 

They got into the bed, Merlin wriggling his way into Arthur’s arms. “Night, Arthur,” he muttered, before swiftly slipping away into sleep.

Arthur lay there half-awake for a little while longer, mentally exploring the ways in which Merlin fit against him. It was different from holding Guinevere, different from holding Lancelot. It had been his destiny to love each of them, and he was glad of it. But this – this strange contrary intriguing powerful man currently snoring softly with his head on the same pillow as Arthur’s – this would be the love of his life, Arthur knew it.

♦

In the darkest hour of the night, Arthur woke to a wounded cry – and then Merlin was clutching at him hard, fingertips digging in, all of him fretful as if trying to burrow deeper into their embrace. “Arthur, oh _god_,” the man said wildly, “I thought I was dreaming you.”

“No, I’m here,” Arthur replied in sleep-roughened tones. He gathered all of Merlin up with all of himself, or tried to, anyway. “I’m here, Merlin.”

Merlin’s lips found Arthur’s in the darkness – and they were kissing with all the hunger and wanting that had been missing before. “Oh god, oh god,” Merlin was groaning even while he mouthed at Arthur’s lips, his jaw, his cheeks, his throat.

Their bodies were shifting together, both of them hard and needy, as if this were the deepest truest instinct of all. Merlin’s strong sinewy form shifted about as if he would never get enough of Arthur’s skin, and that would never be enough anyway because he needed _all_ of Arthur. Merlin was a feast for the senses. Everything was so perfect that Arthur was nigh on overwhelmed by touch and sound and taste and scent, but – “Give us light, Merlin,” Arthur insisted. “I want to see you.”

“It’s me, though,” Merlin gabbled. “It’s honestly me.”

“I _know_ that – It’s as if I always knew how you’d feel – But I want to see you, too.”

Merlin growled. “This better not be a dream …” A pulse of gold briefly illuminated his face, and then the smaller not-a-candle was casting its circle of light down by the foot of the bed.

Arthur lifted a hand to shape to Merlin’s long lovely face, and he gazed at him. There was a wildness in Merlin, barely banked down. 

“I’ve dreamed too many times of this, and woken alone.”

“Dream all you like,” said Arthur. “You won’t ever wake alone again, if I have anything to do with it.”

A gasping groaning cry, and Merlin set upon him once more, kissing him. It was gorgeous. They were both so desperate as to be almost maddened. 

Soon Merlin was forcing his hand down between them, reconfiguring himself, and then he wrapped them both up in his oddly cool palm and fingers. From there it was clumsy, glorious, muddled, delightful. A confusion of thrusting and tugging. Despite their hunger, the end was delayed by an utter lack of rhythm which defied any expectations – but then without any deliberate effort or intent, suddenly Arthur was spilling his seed, and Merlin lifted up a little to watch him, and apparently that was all Merlin needed because he collapsed again with a muttered oath, a complaint, as he finished, too …

They lay there in a damp tangle of heavy limbs, catching their breath. Arthur indulged himself, stroking Merlin’s dark tumble of hair. “I’ve missed you,” he eventually said, quietly. Sincerely but lightly. “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long.”

Merlin lifted his head, and those deep blue eyes considered him carefully. But apparently Merlin couldn’t remain serious. He burst into a grin, and declared, “I’m already pretty close to thinking you were worth the wait.”

“Are you, indeed?”

“Yeah …” Merlin shifted over him again, and pushed in for another kiss. “Maybe just a little more convincing wouldn’t go astray …”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Arthur, his hands running down that strong slender back to where it tapered into that narrow rear. He thrust up against his love, feeling them both stirring again. 

Their desires ran ahead of their capabilities, but eventually their bodies caught up, and they were groaning and grunting through another completion. They were a total mess now, but neither cared. They settled back down, still deep in each other’s arms, drawing the covers up around their shoulders and waiting for the night to steal over them again.

“Gonna sleep well,” Merlin muttered, already half gone, “after that.”

“Good,” said Arthur, “because in the morning there’ll be work to do.”

Merlin gurgled rather than giggled, and cast him a bright glance. “Yeah, welcome back, Arthur.”

“Glad to be here, Merlin,” Arthur murmured. He curled up even closer around his love, with his head on the same pillow, and if he had any remaining doubts he surrendered them all. 

This was his destiny.

♦ ♦ ♦

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Leon in Camelot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526623) by [harlequin (julie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/harlequin)
  * [{art} for Arthur in Avalon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470367) by [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello)


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